The Law of Innocence

24

Wednesday, January 15

We got down to San Pedro by 9:30 the next morning. We drove separately. I was driven by Bishop because I needed to get to downtown before 1 p.m. for the hearing on the missing wallet. Bosch came in his old Cherokee and Cisco on his Harley. We convened at the house on Cabrillo that Austin Neiderland had put me onto. There was an apartment for rent sign on the front lawn. Bishop had been cleared by Cisco but you can never be 100 percent sure about anything. I didn’t want him sitting in the Lincoln in front of the house. I told him to go get coffee nearby and wait for me to summon him when I was ready to go to court. I then approached the house with my investigators and knocked on the door. A woman in a bathrobe answered. I held up a business card and went with a script I had written in my head based on what I knew from Neiderland.

“Hello, ma’am, I’m Michael Haller, an attorney involved in the situation regarding the estate of Walter Lennon, and we are here to ascertain and review any property he left behind.”

“ ‘Estate’? Does that mean he’s dead?”

“Yes, ma’am, Mr. Lennon passed in late October.”

“Well, no one told us. We just thought he took off. He was paid up through November but then December went by and no sign of him and no rent check.”

“I see the sign out front. You are rerenting the apartment?”

“Of course. He was gone and he didn’t pay.”

“Are his belongings still in there?”

“No, we cleared him out. His stuff is in the garage. We wanted to dump it, but the law, you know. We have to wait sixty days.”

“Well, thank you for adhering to the law. Do you mind if we look at the property in the garage?”

She didn’t answer. She closed the door about halfway so she could reach something behind it. She then came up with a remote control and reached out the door to click it.

“Third bay,” she said. “It’s open now. The boxes are marked with his name and stacked between the tread marks.”

“Thank you,” I said. “Do you mind if we also look around the apartment? Just a quick check.”

She reached behind the door again and then handed me a key.

“Stairs are on the side of the garage,” she said. “Bring it back when you’re finished.”

“Of course,” I said.

“And don’t mess it up. It’s all clean. Mr. Lennon left it a mess.”

“How so? What kind of mess?”

“Like a tornado had hit the place. Broken furniture, his stuff thrown all over the floors. So don’t be asking about his deposit. It barely covered what we had to do in there.”

“Understood. Do you mind one more thing? We’d like you to look at a photo to confirm that the Walter Lennon we are talking about is the Walter Lennon you are talking about.”

“I guess so.”

Cisco had pulled a photo of Sam Scales up on his phone. It was a DMV photo that had been released to the media after my arrest. He held it up to the woman at the door and she nodded after getting a look at it.

“That’s him,” she said.

“Thank you, ma’am,” I said. “We won’t take long.”

“Just bring the key back,” she said.

We started with the apartment, which was a small one-bedroom flat over the garage. The place had been cleaned and prepped for a new renter. We weren’t expecting to find anything in plain sight — especially since the landlord’s description indicated that it had already been searched. But Sam Scales was a lifelong con artist who might have reason to hide things in his home that a quick search might miss. The lead on this went to Bosch, who’d had many years of experience searching the homes of criminals.

Bosch had brought a little tool bag with him. His first stop was the kitchen, where he was methodical about checking the underside of drawers, unscrewing and checking behind the kickboards beneath the cabinets, opening the insulation spaces in the refrigerator and freezer doors, and examining the light and fan assembly over the stove. When I realized how long his full search might take, I decided to change things up. I left Bosch in the apartment while Cisco and I went down to the garage. I had to make sure I got to the courthouse in time.

There were two stacks of four cardboard boxes in the middle of the third bay — between the tread marks presumably left by renters’ cars over time. The boxes were sealed and each was marked with the name Lennon and the date 12/19. Cisco started with one stack and I started with the other.

My first box contained clothes. There was a car in the second bay of the garage. I laid the clothes out on its hood and then went through each item, checking pockets, before returning it to the box.

The second box contained shoes, socks, underwear, and nothing else. I checked the shoes inside and out and found a set of lace-up work boots with oily debris stuck in the treads. It reminded me of the oily substance found under Sam Scales’s fingernails.

I put the shoes aside and checked on Cisco. He was also dealing with clothes from his first two boxes.

My third box contained personal items, including toiletries, a plug-in alarm clock, and several books. I fanned the pages of each but found nothing hidden among them. They were all novels except for one book, which was a 2015 owner’s manual for a Mack Pinnacle tanker truck. I knew this fit in with BioGreen but wasn’t sure how. I set the manual aside on the hood of the car in the second bay.

My fourth box contained more of the same. More books and personal items, such as a drip coffee maker and several coffee mugs that were wrapped in old newspaper. A layer of unopened mail was at the bottom of the box, probably put there to further cushion the fragile glass coffeepot and mugs.

The mail was mostly junk with the exception of an AT&T phone bill and an unopened letter from Austin Neiderland with the return address Nevada’s High Desert State Prison. I put the prison letter unopened back into the box. It was apparent from my interview with Neiderland that he didn’t know what scam Sam Scales was into. I didn’t think the letter would be of much use. Instead, I ripped open the phone bill to see if it included a list of numbers called, but it was a reminder notice that the prior bill was unpaid. There was a list of services Sam Scales was receiving but no list of calls.

Cisco was running one box behind me as he fanned the pages of books from his third box. I moved over and opened his last one. It contained three unopened boxes of Honeycomb cereal and a fourth box of Rice Krispies.

“Sam liked his cereal, I guess.”

I shook and examined each box to see if it was factory-sealed or Sam-sealed to hide something inside. I decided they were just boxes of cereal and moved on. Below the cereal were some bags of ground coffee and other unopened items from kitchen cabinets.

“Look at this,” Cisco said.

He held up a thin study manual for the California commercial driver’s license exam.

“It’s got stuff underlined in it,” Cisco said. “Like he was really studying it.”

“And I found an owner’s manual for a Mack tanker truck,” I said.

“I’ll say it again — maybe he was going straight. Being a trucker or something.”

“No way. For Sam, working a square job was worse than prison. He was working a long con. He could never go straight.”

“Then, what was it?”

“I don’t know but we’re getting close. This is why they stole the wallet.”

“Why?”

“The wallet had his current alias. That would have led here and then to BioGreen. They didn’t want us getting there.”

“Who is ‘they’?”

“We don’t know yet. Maybe Opparizio. Maybe the FBI. They’re set up on Opparizio and that place and didn’t want the investigation compromised by a murder investigation linked to BioGreen. As soon as the LAPD ran Sam’s prints that night, the bureau probably got an alert. They assess the situation and go grab the wallet before anybody looks at it. They come here, search the place, remove any connection. Sam is never linked to the Walter Lennon alias and the investigation never gets to BioGreen.”

“So you’re saying they just stood by while you got tagged with the murder and were going to let you go down for it?”

“I don’t know. It had to have been a plan hatched without a lot of down-the-road thinking. Maybe they were just buying time to wrap things up on BioGreen. Then I blew up the schedule when I refused to waive a speedy trial. Instead of a trial in July or even later, it’s February, and they didn’t see that coming.”

“Maybe. A lot of maybes.”

“It’s all speculation right now. But I think we’re—”

Bosch entered the garage then and I stopped.

“Anything upstairs?” I asked.

“Clean,” he said. “I found a false-floor storage space in the bedroom closet, but it wasn’t hidden well and was empty. Whoever searched the place before would have found it.”

“How big?” I asked. “Could a laptop fit?”

“Yeah, it could fit,” Bosch said.

“That’s what’s missing here,” I said. “Sam used the Internet for his scams. I can’t see him without a computer. Plus there’s a phone bill in here for a full-service package including home Wi-Fi. Why get Wi-Fi if you don’t have a computer?”

“So, we’re missing a computer, a phone, and a wallet,” Cisco said.

“Exactly,” I said.

“What’s in the boxes?” Bosch asked.

“Not much,” I said. “A pair of boots with grease in the treads. We’re almost finished.”

I went back to the last box and saw that the bottom was lined with various documents and paperwork — things that were probably stuffed into a kitchen drawer. There was an instruction manual for the coffee maker, a set of step-by-step directions for putting together an Ikea table, and several opened letters from Neiderland. That Scales had kept them reinforced in me the idea that they’d had a romantic relationship.

There was also a trifold and stapled printout of a story from the

New York Times. The headline read “Bleeding the Beast.”

The story had a Salt Lake City dateline. I started reading and by the time I finished I knew that the story changed everything. And I knew that the printout was something I would need to turn over in discovery to the prosecution — if I took it from the garage.

I refolded the printout and dropped it back into the box. I picked up the Mack truck owner’s manual and dropped it in as well. I then closed it up and stacked two other boxes on top of it.

I pulled my phone and texted Bishop, telling him to come pick me up.

“Okay, we’re out of here,” I said.

“Wait,” Cisco said. “You don’t want to take any of this stuff?”

“We take it, we have to share it,” I said.

“Discovery,” Cisco said.

“Let them discover it on their own,” I said. “They’re not doing me any favors, I won’t do any for them. Let’s go. I have court.”

I checked Bosch as we walked out to see if he showed any signs of discomfort with my decision to leave everything behind. I didn’t see a thing.

Bishop was pulling up out front as we emerged. I handed Cisco the key to the apartment.

“You mind taking the key back to the old lady?” I asked. “And get her name and contact info. To put on the witness list.”

“You got it,” Cisco said.

“Tell her we found nothing of value to the estate in the boxes. She can donate them or get rid of them any way she wishes. As soon as she wants to.”

Cisco looked at me and nodded. He understood what I meant. Get rid of the property before the police or prosecution finally find this place.

“I’ll deliver the message,” he said.

25

Things had changed rapidly since the first hearing on Sam Scales’s missing wallet. My outrage over the missing evidence and its impact on my case was now tempered by my team’s findings of the last forty-eight hours. I believed I had learned the key secret of the wallet — the alias Sam was using in the last year of his life. And now I didn’t want to share that secret with the prosecution until I had to. I certainly didn’t want it to be pursued by a court order or continue to be an issue. This led me to approach the hearing in Judge Warfield’s courtroom cautiously and with a plan to score points — especially in front of the reporters who would be there — but to let sleeping dogs lie.

Judge Warfield was again a solid ten minutes late coming to the bench for the afternoon session. This gave me time to update Jennifer on the morning’s activities. I told her about the Times story from Salt Lake City and the need to keep the knowledge it gave us under wraps. I cautioned her against printing out the story if she looked it up in the newspaper’s archives.

“If it’s on paper, it goes into discovery,” I said. “So, no paper.”

“Got it,” Jennifer said.

“Also, there was a man in the story, a witness named Art Schultz. He was retired from the EPA. We need to find him and bring him in as a witness. He’ll be key.”

“But what happens when we put him on the witness list? The prosecution will be all over it and they’ll figure out where we’re going with this.”

Each side’s witness list was included in discovery, and the court required an abbreviated summary of what every witness would testify to. Writing these so that they were accurate on face at the same time that they carried no hint of strategy or significance of the full testimony was an art form.

“There’s a way around it,” I said. “To camouflage it. Make contact with Schultz and get his CV. He was with the EPA, so he probably has a biology degree or something like that. Put him on the list and say he’ll testify in regard to the material found under the victim’s fingernails. He’ll be our grease expert and will probably fly well below the prosecution’s radar. But once we get him on the stand, we’ll use him to connect what’s under the nails to what’s going on at BioGreen.”

“Risky, but okay,” Jennifer said. “I’ll work on it after the hearing.”

The judge stepped out from the door to her chambers and took the bench. She first apologized for being late, explaining that a monthly judges’ luncheon had run long. She then got down to business.

“This is a continuation of a motion to compel discovery by the defense, and I believe, Ms. Berg, that I instructed you to investigate the matter of a missing wallet and to report back to the court. What have you found?”

Berg stepped over to the lectern to address the court. She looked pained as she adjusted the level of the microphone.

“Thank you, Your Honor,” she said. “Simply stated, the wallet remains missing. Over the past two days, Detective Drucker has conducted an investigation and is here to testify if necessary. But the wallet was not found. The People concede that the video evidence presented by the defense Monday is conclusive in that regard — there does appear to have been a wallet in the victim’s back pocket at the time the body was discovered in the trunk of the defendant’s car. But it was not among the personal property that was later turned over to the LAPD at the coroner’s office.”

“Have you determined when it was taken or by whom?” Warfield pressed.

“No, Your Honor,” Berg said. “The procedure is that the body would have been transported to the coroner’s office, where it would have been placed in the prep room. That’s where clothing and property is removed and the bodies are prepared for autopsy, while the property is sealed and held for the police. In this case specifically, the body was discovered in the evening and therefore not delivered to the prep room until approximately two a.m. This means that autopsy prep would not have occurred until the morning.”

“So, the body would have just been sitting there unattended?” the judge asked.

“Not exactly,” Berg said. “It would have been moved to a large refrigerated crypt that is part of the coroner’s office.”

“So, it was in with other bodies.”

“Yes, Judge.”

“Not isolated.”

“Not beyond being in a crypt where authorized access is required.”

“Did Detective Drucker check to see if there are any surveillance cameras in the area?”

“He did and there are no cameras.”

“So we have no way of knowing who may have gained access to this crypt and taken the wallet.”

“That is correct at this time.”

“At this time? Do you think that is going to change?”

“No, Your Honor.”

“What is it that the People suggest I do about this, Ms. Berg?”

“Your Honor, the People make no excuse for the loss of this property. However, it is a loss that impacts both sides equally. Neither the People nor the defense has the opportunity to access the wallet and whatever case information, if any, it contained. Therefore, it is the People’s position that while we accept responsibility for the loss, the damage — if any — is equal.”

Warfield digested that for a few moments before responding.

“Something tells me that Mr. Haller is not going to agree with that assessment,” she said. “Would the defense like to respond?”

I was up quickly and to the lectern almost before Berg had time to step away.

“Yes, Your Honor is exactly right,” I said. “The damage to the defense and prosecution can in no way be considered equal. The state sits fat and happy with the case just as it is, Your Honor. They have a body in the trunk of a car and they’ve charged the driver. No need to dig deeper than that. Case closed. They didn’t even raise a question about the missing wallet until the defense did. They clearly weren’t interested, because the wallet and what ID the victim was using could lead to what Sam Scales was up to on the last days of his life, and that might not fit with the neat package they have put together on me. It is clear, Judge, that the damage here is to the defense, not the prosecution.”

“Say I agree with you, Mr. Haller,” Warfield said. “What is the remedy the defense seeks?”

“There is no remedy. The defense wants the wallet. That’s the remedy.”

“Then, what is the penalty? There appears to be no evidence of sinister behavior by those involved in the investigation. The wallet appears to have been stolen by someone who had access to the body while it was in the custody of the coroner’s office. The matter will certainly be referred for internal investigation by the coroner, but the court does not feel inclined to punish the prosecution for this unfortunate set of circumstances.”

I shook my head in frustration even though I knew this was heading toward the outcome I had expected and, based on the morning’s discoveries, wanted.

“Your Honor,” I said. “For the record, then, I want it noted that the investigation of the missing evidence carried out by the prosecution was conducted by the same detective who was in charge of protecting the crime scene and the evidence in this case.”

“So noted, Mr. Haller,” Warfield said. “Any other matters before we adjourn?”

“Yes, Your Honor,” Berg said.

I relinquished the lectern to her and headed back to my seat, shaking my head as if frustrated by the judge’s ruling.

“Excuse me, Ms. Berg,” Warfield said. “Mr. Haller, I noted your demonstration. Are you upset with the court’s decision?”

I stopped in my tracks.

“Your Honor, I’m just frustrated,” I said. “I am trying to put together a defense and it seems that at every turn, I am thwarted. The People lost the wallet — by negligence or malfeasance doesn’t really matter — and I will pay for it. That’s all.”

“I advise counsel on both sides to keep their emotions and demonstrations in check,” Warfield said. “Particularly when we go to trial. The court will have no patience for such outbursts then, not in front of a jury.”

“Judge, I would not call it an outburst. I was just—”

“Are you going to argue with the court now as well, Mr. Haller?”

“No, Your Honor.”

I continued to my seat and Warfield tracked me with her eyes in case I so much as frowned. Finally, she broke away and looked at the prosecutor.

“Ms. Berg, continue,” she said.

“Judge, yesterday we received the first witness list from the defendant,” Berg said. “It had only two names on it — the defendant himself and his investigator. This from a defendant who has twice come before this court to complain about discovery issues, and he has the audacity to put just two names down on his witness list.”

Warfield looked like she was either weary of the constant cross fire between the prosecution and defense or was being hit with fatigue from the two martinis she’d probably had at the judges’ lunch. I was sure the alcohol was what had inspired her to snap at me. Before I could object to Berg’s complaint, Warfield held her hand up to me, indicating that she was not interested in my response.

“It’s early, Ms. Berg,” Warfield said. “We are still almost thirty days out, and there will be an update on the lists from both parties next week and every week after. Let’s wait a bit before we panic about whom he plans to call. Anything of a more serious nature?”

“No, Your Honor,” Berg said.

“No, Your Honor,” I said.

“Very well,” Warfield said. “Then we are adjourned.”

26

Having not had time to eat before the hearing, I went to the Little Jewel for a shrimp po’boy sandwich directly after court. I was joined by everyone on the defense team except Bosch. He was apparently off doing his own thing again and was incommunicado. I told the team that the defense had turned a corner with the case knowledge gathered in the last forty-eight hours and that it was time to start thinking in terms of presenting the case to a jury. We could clearly anticipate what the prosecution presentation would be, because it had not really changed since the start of the case. We could prepare for that but what was more important was preparing to tell our story.

A trial often comes down to who is a better storyteller, the prosecution or the defense. There is evidence, of course, but physical evidence is at first interpreted for the jury by the storyteller.

Story A: A man kills an enemy, puts the body in the trunk, and plans to bury it late at night, when there will be no one around to see.

Story B: A man is set up for the murder of a former client and unwittingly drives around with the body in the trunk until he is pulled over by police.

The physical evidence fits both stories. One might be more believable than the other when writ small. But a skilled storyteller can even the scales of justice or maybe even tip them the other way with a different interpretation of the evidence. This was where we were now and I was starting to get the visions I got before all trials. Visions of witnesses on the stand, visions of me telling my story to a jury.

“We are clearly going for third-party culpability,” I said. “And the guy we point the finger at is going to be Louis Opparizio. I doubt he pulled the trigger but he gave the order. So he is our fall guy and our number one witness. We need to find him. We need to paper him. We need to make sure he shows up for court.”

Jennifer Aronson shook her hands palms out like she was warding off a swarm of bees.

“Can we just back up?” she asked. “Walk me through this like I’m a juror. What are we saying happened? I mean, I get it. Opparizio killed Scales or had Scales killed and then tried to frame you for it. But can we say yet exactly how this went down?”

“Nothing is exact at this point,” I said. “And we have a lot of holes to fill — that’s why we’re meeting right now. But I can tell you what I think went down and what the evidence — once we have it all — is going to prove.”

“Yes, please,” Lorna said. “I’m with Jen. I’m having a hard time seeing this.”

“Not a problem,” I said. “Let’s go through it slowly. A couple things to start with first. Number one is Louis Opparizio’s enmity for me. Nine years ago I sandbagged him in court, revealing his mob connections and shady dealings in the foreclosure world. In that case, he was a straw man. He was the shiny bait I put out in front of the jury and they went for it. Though he was not the killer I portrayed him as in court, he was involved in some shady shit, the government took notice, and he and his mob backers ended up forfeiting major millions when the Federal Trade Commission reversed a hundred-million-dollar merger he had just completed. I think all of that explains why he would hold a grudge against me. Not only did I expose him in public but I cost him and his mob backers a ton of money.”

“No doubt,” Cisco said. “I’m surprised he waited until now to make a move against you. Nine years is a long time.”

“Well, maybe he was waiting until he had the perfect frame,” I said. “Because I’m in a tight box.”

“That’s for sure,” Lorna said.

“Okay, so the second building block of the case is the victim,” I said. “Sam Scales, con man extraordinaire. Our story is that these two — Opparizio and Scales — intersected at BioGreen. They were bleeding the beast, operating the long con, when something went wrong. Opparizio had to take out Scales but also had to make sure the investigation came nowhere near BioGreen. So I became his fall guy. He somehow knew of my history with Scales and that it ended badly. He sticks Sam’s body in my trunk and I go down for it while BioGreen stays clean and supposedly keeps pumping out that recycled fuel the government loves so much.”

I looked at the three faces around the table.

“Questions?” I asked.

“I have a couple,” Lorna said. “First, what was the con they were pulling?”

“It’s called bleeding the beast,” I said. “Scamming the government — the beast, that is — out of federal subsidies for producing green gold: recycled oil.”

“Whoa,” Lorna said. “Sounds like Sam really came up in the world. That’s a long way from the Internet scams he was known for.”

“Good point,” I said. “That is something that doesn’t fit with what I know about him, but I’m just telling you my theory so far. He had green gold under his fingernails. One thing we do need to find out is whether Sam went to Opparizio with the scam idea, or was Sam simply recruited into the ongoing operation?”

“Any idea what the falling-out was?” Jennifer asked. “Why was Sam killed?”

“Another hole we have to fill,” I said. “And my guess is that the FBI is at the bottom of that hole.”

“They flipped him?” Cisco half asked, half suggested.

I nodded.

“I think it’s something along those lines,” I said. “Opparizio found out and Sam had to go.”

“But the smart move would have been to just make him disappear,” Cisco said. “Why put the body anyplace where it could and would be found?”

“Right,” I said. “That goes on the list of unknowns. But I think that simply disappearing Sam might have brought in more scrutiny from the feds. Doing it the way they did would help insulate BioGreen and maybe make it look like it had nothing to do with the scam down there.”

“Not to mention Opparizio knew this was a good way to get back at you, boss,” Cisco added.

“Most of this is just theory,” Jennifer said. “What’s next? How do we turn theory into a solid defense?”

“Opparizio,” I said. “We find him, serve him, and make sure the judge enforces the subpoena.”

“That only gets him to court,” Jennifer said. “Last time you wanted him to take the Fifth, but this time you have to get him to actually testify.”

“Not necessarily,” I said. “If we have the goods on him, it’ll be about the questions we ask, not the answers. He can take the Fifth all he wants. The jury will hear the story in the questions.”

I turned my eyes to Cisco. “So, where is he?” I asked.

“We’ve been on the girlfriend, what, five days now?” Cisco said. “And no sign of him. We may need to shake things up. Throw a scare at her, create a need for her to see him.”

I shook my head.

“I think it’s too early for that,” I said. “We have some time. We don’t want to subpoena him till pretty late in the game. Otherwise, Iceberg will be onto us.”

“She is already,” Jennifer said. “She would have gotten copied on the FBI subpoena.”

“But my guess is she saw that as a shot in the dark,” I said. “A fishing expedition to see if the feds had anything. Even the judge thought that. Anyway, I don’t want to go for a subpoena yet. That will give the prosecution too much time to cover our ground. So we need to find him first and then watch him until it’s time.”

“That can be done,” Cisco said. “But it will cost. I didn’t realize we were talking about running this up to the trial.”

“How much?” I asked.

“We’re running four grand a day with the surveillance package we’ve got out there now,” Cisco said.

I looked at Lorna, the keeper of the practice’s bank accounts. She shook her head.

“We’re four weeks out from trial,” she said. “You’ll need a hundred thousand to keep it going, Mickey. We don’t have that.”

“Unless you go back to Andre La Cosse or Bosch,” Jennifer said. “They got off easy on your bail but had been willing to pony up six figures each.”

“No on Bosch,” I said. “I should be paying him rather than asking him for money. Lorna, see if you can set up a dinner between me and Andre. I’ll see what he’s willing to do.”

“Maybe Cisco can negotiate a discount?” Lorna said, looking across the table at her husband. “Mickey is a repeat client, after all.”

“I can try for it,” Cisco said.

I knew that he probably got a piece of any business he brought to the Indians. So Lorna’s suggestion hit him in his own wallet.

“Good,” I said.

“So, what about the FBI?” Jennifer said, changing the subject. “The FOIA and subpoena went nowhere. We could formally go to the U.S. Attorney with a Touhy letter. But we all know the feds can just sit on it, and it won’t work with our timeframe.”

“What’s a Touhy letter?” Cisco asked.

“Step one in a protocol for demanding a federal agent’s testimony,” Jennifer said. “Named after an Illinois convict whose case created it.”

“You’re right, though,” I said. “It’ll take forever. But there might be an end run with the bureau. And if we make enough waves at BioGreen or at least threaten to, they may come to the table.”

“Good luck with that,” Jennifer said.

“Yeah, luck is what we need,” I said.

And that put a solemn cap on the meeting.

27

Wednesdays had always been my night with my daughter but things had shifted with law school. She had a torts study group that met at seven, so I was relegated to the early-bird special. We’d meet on campus or close by for a quick and early dinner and then she would go off to the law school and the group’s meeting room.

I had Bishop drop me off at the gate on Exposition Boulevard. Before getting out, I handed sixty dollars over the seat to him.

“Pick me up here in two hours,” I said. “Meantime, use that money to buy me a prepaid burner and then get yourself something to eat with the rest. If there’s time after that, set up the burner. I’ll need to make a call on it when I get back.”

“You got it,” Bishop said. “You want to be able to text?”

“Not necessary. If it goes right, I’ll make one call and receive another. That’s it.”

I walked across campus from there to Moreton Fig in the student center. I found Hayley at an outside table near the towering tree the restaurant was named for. And to my surprise, she was sitting with her mother. They were on the same side of the table, so when I sat down I was facing them both.

“Well, this is a nice surprise,” I said. “Good to see you, Mags.”

“Good to see you too. Are you going to eat?” Maggie asked.

“Uh, that’s why I’m here,” I said. “And to see our daughter.”

“Well, you don’t look like you’re eating,” she countered. “You’ve been out of lockup for, what, a month? And it looks like you’re still losing weight. What’s going on with you, Mickey?”

“What is this, an intervention?” I asked.

“We’re worried about you, Dad,” Hayley said. “I asked Mom to come.”

“Yeah, well, try being charged with a murder you didn’t commit,” I said. “It wears you down, whether you’re in jail or not.”

“How can we help?” Maggie said.

I paused before answering while a waitress brought us menus. Maggie refused a menu, saying she wasn’t going to eat.

“You’re here to tell me I have to start eating but you’re not going to eat?” I said.

“I know these dinners are special,” Maggie said. “For both of you — going all the way back to when you used to get pancakes at the Du-Par’s that isn’t there anymore. I just wanted to see you and ask how you’re doing, then let you two be together.”

“You can stay,” I said. “We would always make room for you.”

“No, I have plans,” Maggie said. “I’m going to go, but you didn’t answer my question. How can we help you, Mickey?”

“Well,” I said, “you could start by telling your colleague, Iceberg, that she’s so blinded by the idea of having me as a trophy on her shelf that she’s not seeing the case for what it really is. A set—”

Maggie waved her hands to cut me off.

“I’m talking about what we could do outside the courtroom,” she said. “This is an extremely awkward work situation, as you know. They’ve kept me far away from the case because of the conflict of interest, but I don’t even have to see the case or the evidence to know there’s no way you did this. Just as I know you’re going to win the case. Hayley and I could never think otherwise. But you need to be able to win the case, and your physical health is key. And you look like shit, Mickey. I’m sorry, but I’ve seen you in court. Hayley said you got your suits altered, but you still look like skin and bones. You’ve got circles under your eyes... you don’t look confident. You don’t look like the Lincoln Lawyer we know and love.”

I was silent. Her words hit hard because I knew they were sincere.

“Thank you,” I finally said. “I mean that. It’s a good reminder. Act like a winner, you’ll become a winner. That’s the rule and I guess I forgot it. You can’t act like a winner if you don’t look like one. It’s all about sleep, I think. It’s hard to sleep with this hanging over me.”

“See a doctor,” Maggie said. “Get a prescription.”

I shook my head.

“No prescriptions,” I said. “But I’ll figure something out. Should we order? You sure you can’t stay? The food here is great.”

“I can’t,” she said. “I really do have a meeting and I want you and Hay to visit. She was just telling me that she’s learning more watching you in court than in the hallowed hallways of USC Law. Anyway, I’m going to go now.”

Maggie pushed back her chair.

“Thanks, Mags,” I said. “It means a lot.”

“Take care of yourself,” she said.

And then she did a surprising thing. After leaning down and kissing Hayley on the cheek, she came around the table to kiss me as well. It was the first time in too many years for me to remember.

“Bye, guys,” she said.

I watched her go and was silent for a few moments.

“Do they really call her that?” Hayley asked.

“What?” I asked.

“Iceberg.”

“Yeah, they do.”

She laughed and then I did too. The waitress came and we ordered off the happy-hour menu. Hayley had lobster tacos and, inspired by Maggie’s “skin and bones” comment, I ordered the classic hamburger with grilled onions even though I’d had a late lunch.

During the meal, we mostly talked about her classes. She was at a stage where the law was a wonderful thing, with protections for all and equitable punishments for the offenders. It was an exciting time and I remembered it well. It was when ideals were set and goals attached to them. I let her talk and mostly just smiled and nodded my head. My mind was on Maggie. The things she had said, and the kiss at the end.

“Now you,” Hayley said at one point.

I looked up, a french fry ready to go into my mouth.

“What do you mean?” I asked.

“All we’ve been talking about is me and the theoretical world of law,” she said. “What about you and the real world? How is the case going?”

“What case?”

“Daaad.”

“Just kidding. It’s going well. We’re coming up with some good stuff, I think. I’m beginning to see the trial come together. There was a football coach. I can’t remember who it was — maybe Belichick, the Patriots guy. Anyway, he would call the first twelve plays of the game for the offense a couple days before the game even started. He’d look at film of the other team, study their habits, decide what he expected them to do on defense, and write out the plays. That’s the place I’m getting to. I can see things falling into place — witnesses, evidence.”

“But you don’t get to go until after the prosecution.”

“True. But I pretty much know what they’re going to do. I mean, we’re four weeks out, so there’s plenty of time for things to change and maybe they surprise me. But right now I’m thinking about my case, not the state’s, and I’m beginning to feel good about it.”

“That’s great. I already talked to all of my professors and told them I needed to be there.”

“Look, I know you’re with me on it, but you don’t have to be there and miss school. Maybe come for openers and then I’ll let you know if there’s something you might want to see. Then the verdict and the celebration afterward.”

I smiled, hoping she would share my optimism.

“Dad, don’t jinx yourself,” she said instead.

“Is that what they teach you at USC Law?” I said. “How not to jinx a case?”

“No, that’s third year.”

“Funny girl.”

We went our separate ways outside the restaurant. I walked off but then stopped to watch her make her way through the plaza. It was dark now but the campus was well lit. She walked with confidence and a fast step. I watched until she disappeared between two buildings.

Bishop was waiting for me at the appointed spot. I got in the rear passenger door. He handed a cheap flip phone over the seat to me as well as change from my sixty.

“Did you get something to eat?” I asked.

“I went over to the Tam’s on Fig,” he said.

“I had a hamburger, too.”

“Hit the spot. So, where to?”

“Just hold right here a minute while I make a call.”

On my real phone I googled the number for the FBI’s Los Angeles Field Office and called it on the burner. It was answered by a male voice and a curt “FBI.”

“Yes, I need to get a message to an agent.”

“There’s nobody in right now. Everybody’s gone home.”

“I know. Can you please get a message to Agent Dawn Ruth?”

“You’ll have to do that tomorrow.”

“It’s an emergency call from a confidential informant. Tomorrow will be too late.”

There was a long pause and then he relented.

“Is this the number she needs to call?”

“Yes, and the name is Walter Lennon.”

“Walter Lennon. Got it.”

“Please call her now. Thank you.”

I closed the burner and looked over the seat at Bishop.

“Okay, drive. I want to be moving if she calls back. Harder to track us that way.”

“Anywhere?”

“Tell you what — head toward your place. I can drop you off tonight instead of you dropping me and taking an Uber.”

“You sure?”

“Yeah, go. I want to be moving.”

Bishop pulled the Lincoln away from the curb and started driving. He was soon on the 110 freeway going south. I knew he would connect to the 105 and turn west toward Inglewood.

We were in the carpool lane and making good time. As we took the exit to the 105, the burner phone started to buzz with a call. Caller ID was blocked. I flipped it open but didn’t speak. Soon I heard a woman’s voice.

“Who is this?”

“Agent Ruth, thanks for calling. It’s Mick Haller.”

“Haller? What the hell are you doing?”

“Is this a private line? I don’t think you want this recorded.”

“Yes, it’s private. What exactly is this about?”

“Well, it’s about Walter Lennon. And the fact that you called me back so quick pretty much confirms you know exactly who he is. Make that, was.”

“Haller, you have about three seconds before I hang up. Why are you calling me?”

“I’m taking a gamble, Agent Ruth. The other night when your partner Aiello wanted to throw me off the deck, you pulled him back. I’ve seen a lot of tape in my time of the good cop — bad cop routine, and I don’t think that’s what was going on there. You didn’t like what he was doing.”

“I’m asking you one more time before hanging up: What do you want?”

“Well, for one thing, I want you to testify.”

I heard sarcastic laughter.

“And barring that,” I said, undaunted, “I want you to tell me what was going on with Sam Scales aka Walter Lennon and BioGreen.”

“You’re crazy, Haller,” Ruth said. “You expect me to just throw my job away?”

“I expect you to do the right thing, is all. Isn’t that why you became an FBI agent? I’m basing this on what happened the other night but I’m guessing that whatever is going on — this cover-up — you’re not down with it. Your partner may be all in, but you’re not. You know I didn’t kill Sam Scales and you can help me prove it.”

“I’ll say it again. You’re crazy if you think I’m going to throw away my career for you. And, no, I don’t know whether or not you killed Sam Scales.”

“Well, maybe you don’t have to throw away your career. Maybe you can do the right thing and still keep it. I know this: your partner isn’t keeping his.”

“What are you talking about?”

“He was going to throw me off the deck.”

“Please, you’re exaggerating. He was over the top, I’ll give you that, but you were pushing our buttons, Haller. And he wasn’t threatening to push you over. That’s totally insane.”

I didn’t respond, so she kept going.

“Besides, it would be your word against two agents’. Do the math on that.”

“Is that why you guys always travel in pairs?”

She didn’t respond. I pressed on.

“Look, Agent Ruth, for some reason I like you. It’s not been my experience with feds, but like I said, you pulled him off me. So I’m going to do you a favor. I’m going to stop you from filing a false report on that incident when I make the complaint. It’ll probably save your job and then maybe you’ll do right by me.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about now. This is—”

“Do you have a private email address? Give it to me and I’ll send you something tonight. You’ll know what I’m talking about then. I have a camera on the balcony, Agent Ruth. I caught the whole thing. It would be the word of two agents against a video. You would lose.”

There was a long silence and I looked out the window. I saw we were going by the new billion-dollar football stadium. Then I heard Ruth recite an email address. I snapped on the overhead light and wrote it down on a legal pad.

“Okay,” I said. “I’ll send you the video as soon as I get home and get steady Wi-Fi. Probably be an hour. Hopefully I hear something back from you and this whole thing can be avoided — for you and your partner.”

She disconnected without a further word. I put the burner into my jacket pocket and snapped off the overhead light.

“That video must be pretty good, huh?” Bishop asked from the front seat.

I stared at him in the darkness, his face catching a dim glow from the dashboard lights. I once again wondered about Cisco having cleared him as a possible spy for the prosecution. Either way, he didn’t need to know my business.

“Nah,” I said. “I was just bluffing.”

28

Thursday, January 16

The next morning came quickly, thanks to a 7 a.m. hammering on the front door. Kendall jumped out of bed first and then I sat up so fast I thought I felt a muscle in my lower back twinge.

“What is it?” she cried.

“I don’t know,” I said. “Just get dressed.”

I pulled on the pants I had discarded on the floor the night before and grabbed a fresh shirt out of the closet. I buttoned it as I walked barefoot down the hall, the dread growing with each step that I might be going back to Twin Towers. Only the cops pounded on your door this early.

I opened the door, and sure enough, there was Drucker and another detective I didn’t recognize. Behind them stood two uniformed officers. Drucker was holding up a document I did recognize, a search warrant.

“Hello, sir, we have a warrant to search these premises,” Drucker said. “May we come in?”

“Let’s see what you’ve got,” I said.

I took the warrant, which was several pages stapled together. I knew to skip through all the preamble and the probable-cause statement to get to the meat of what they were looking for.

“You want billing records,” I said. “I don’t have any of that here. My office manager has all of the current stuff, and the rest is in storage.”

“My partner is serving a warrant at Ms. Taylor’s residence,” Drucker said. “And we have a third for your storage unit. I was hoping you would cooperate and meet us there to facilitate that search after this.”

I stepped back from the doorway and held my arm out, signaling them to enter. I noticed Kendall in the door to the hallway leading to the back. She was holding up my phone.

“It’s Lorna,” she said.

“Tell her I know she’s getting searched,” I said. “I’ll call her back in five.”

I turned to the four law officers now standing in my living room.

“I have a home office in the back,” I said. “I assume you’ll want to start there. But like I said, I don’t keep billing records here. Lorna handles all of that.”

Drucker was not put off.

“If you could show us the way,” he said. “We’ll try to make this as painless as possible.”

They followed me down the hall. I saw that Kendall had retreated to our bedroom and closed the door. As we went by, I knocked on the door to get her attention.

“Kendall, I need to stay with these guys,” I said. “Will you bring me some socks and my shoes?”

I then moved to the last door in the hallway, which led to a bedroom I’d converted into an office. There was a desk covered in paperwork and files.

“These are case files that contain privileged information you are not entitled to look at,” I said.

I reached down and started opening drawers in the desk so they would see they were mostly empty.

“Knock yourself out but, as you can see, no billing records,” I said. “You’re wasting your time and mine.”

I moved back around from behind the desk so there was room for the searchers. There was a couch in the office, where I slept on occasion. I sat down as Kendall entered with a fresh pair of socks and my black lace-up Ferro Aldo boots. She also handed me my cell phone.

“You people are unbelievable,” Kendall said. “Why don’t you just leave him alone?”

“It’s okay, Kendall,” I said. “They’re wrong, but they’re just doing their job. The sooner we let them get to it, the sooner they’re out of here.”

Kendall left the room in a huff. I called Lorna back.

“Mickey, they’re searching my records,” she said upon answering.

“I know,” I said. “They can look at the billing. Just make sure they’re not looking at privileged material.”

“I’m not letting them near that. But you know, all the stuff with Sam Scales is not here.”

“Detective Drucker is here. I told him that but they’re going to do what they want to do.”

Lorna lowered her voice to a whisper for her next question.

“What does this mean, Mickey? What are they looking for?”

I hadn’t really had time to think about those questions. I told Lorna I would call her back and disconnected. I then sat on the couch, unmoving, as I watched Drucker and the unnamed detective going through the drawers of my desk. The uniformed officers were milling about in the hallway. They were there to enforce the search if there was pushback. But since I was cooperating, they had nothing to do but stand with their hands on their equipment belts.

I knew that Death Row Dana was shoring up her case. I guessed that this search was about accounts receivable and motive. They were looking for documentation that Sam Scales had stiffed me. They wanted my own records to prove it, and that told me that the murder-for-financial-gain charge was still in play.

A few minutes later Drucker closed all the drawers in the desk and looked at me.

“Let’s check the garage,” he said.

“There’s nothing in the garage,” I said. “The California bar frowns on client records being stored in unsecured locations. You want to just skip all of this and go to my warehouse. I know what you’re looking for, and if I have it, it’s there.”

“Where’s your warehouse?”

“Over the hill. Studio City.”

“Let’s check the garage and then go.”

“Whatever.”

It was too early for Bishop to be around. After the garage was cleared — my first time being in there since the murder — I drove the Lincoln, and as I made my way north through Laurel Canyon, I thought about how many times I had chided clients for being cooperative with the people working to take away their freedom. Do you think by being nice and helping them out you’ll convince them you didn’t do it? Not a chance. These people want to take everything away from you: your family, your home, your freedom. Do not cooperate with them!

And yet here I was, leading a parade of police cars to the place where I kept the records of my practice and livelihood. This was the moment when I thought maybe I did have a fool for a client. Maybe I should have just told Drucker to fuck off and let him find the warehouse on his own, then cut the locks and figure out where the files were.

My phone buzzed and it was Lorna again.

“I thought you were going to call me back.”

“Sorry, I forgot.”

“Well, they’re gone. I heard them say they were going to the warehouse.”

“Yeah, I’m heading there now.”

“Mickey, what are the chances they’re going to finish their search and then arrest you on new charges?”

“I thought about that, but they let me drive my own car and lead them up here. No way Drucker would have done that if he had an arrest warrant in his pocket.”

“I hope you’re right.”

“Have you heard from Jennifer yet today?”

“Not yet.”

“Okay, I’ll call her to let her know what’s going on. Hang in there, Lorna.”

“I just wish this would all be over.”

“Me too.”

I led the police brigade up Lankershim to the climate-controlled warehouse where I kept my records along with male and female mannequins and other props I had used at trials over the years. I also had two racks of suits there of various sizes that I kept for clients to wear in court and the third of my three Lincoln Town Cars. There was also an upright AMSEC gun safe for when I took firearms in trade for services rendered. As a condition of my bail, I could have no firearms, so I’d had Cisco take the guns to the home he shared with Lorna until the case came to an end.

The warehouse had a roll-up garage door, which I opened for the searchers. I then led them to a locked storage room within the warehouse, where I kept archived records in locked filing cabinets, in full compliance with California bar guidelines for securing client records. I used a key to unlock the first four-drawer cabinet.

“Have at it, gentlemen,” I said. “This row contains the business records going back to ’05, I believe. You will find the P and Os, the accounting and tax returns, all the financial stuff. That’s what you are entitled to see under the scope of the warrant. The other drawers contain case files and they’re off-limits — even the Sam Scales files.”

The room was too small for the whole group, which now included Drucker’s partner, Lopes. I backed out of the room to where the uniformed cops stood and I hovered by the doorway, where I could keep a watch on the search.

There was a folding table in the file-storage room that I used when I had to look through old cases. The detectives remained standing but opened the files they were interested in on the table. If there was something they wanted to take, they placed it to the side.

With the three of them working it, the search was conducted quickly, and by the time they were finished, they had placed four documents aside to seize under the authority of the search warrant. I asked to see them.

“There is nothing in the warrant that directs me to share with you what we seize,” Drucker said.

“And there’s nothing in there that directs me to cooperate with you,” I said. “But I did. Whatever you take, it comes back to me in discovery anyway, Detective. So, why be a dick about it?”

“You know, Haller, you didn’t have to be a dick yourself and rake me over the coals in public.”

“What? You’re talking about the other day in court? If you think that’s raking somebody over the coals, wait till you testify in front of the jury. Make sure you wear your Depends, Detective.”

Drucker gave me a smile without a note of humor in it.

“Have a good day,” he said.

He brushed by me, holding the documents to his chest so I could not get even a glimpse of them. Lopes and the unnamed detective followed him out. Then the whole entourage of detectives and uniformed escorts left the warehouse. I texted Lorna to let her know I had not been re-arrested. Yet.

29

Friday, January 17

The Catalina Express moved swiftly over the dark waters of the Pacific. The sun was just starting to dip behind the island that lay ahead of us. The wind was biting cold but Kendall and I faced it on the open deck, arms wrapped around each other. It was Friday afternoon and I had told Team Haller that I was disappearing for the holiday weekend. My bail restrictions prohibited me from leaving L.A. County without the judge’s permission, so I chose a spot as far away as I could get without breaking the rules.

The boat docked at the pier in the Avalon Harbor at 4 p.m., and there was a chauffeured golf cart from the Zane Grey Pueblo waiting for us. It carried us and our one bag up the hill, the driver making small talk about the renovations recently completed at the historic hotel, which had once been the home of the author and the place where he had written several of his novels about the western frontier.

“He lived out here because he loved the fishing,” the driver said. “He always said that he wrote so he could fish — whatever that means.”

I just nodded and looked at Kendall. She smiled.

“Did you know he was a dentist?” the driver asked.

“Who was?” I asked.

“Zane Grey,” he said. “And that wasn’t his real first name. His real name was Pearl — like the woman’s name. No wonder he went by Zane. That was his middle name, actually.”

“Interesting,” Kendall said.

It was off-season and the hotel was nearly empty. We had the pick of several rooms, all named after the author’s most popular novels. We took the Riders of the Purple Sage suite, not because I knew the book but because it had a view of the harbor and a working fireplace. I had been in the room before, many times, many years ago, with Maggie McPherson when we were still married.

Our plan was to stay in for most of the weekend and enjoy each other’s company. No phones, no computers, no intrusions. We did, however, rent a golf cart from the hotel for sorties to restaurants and the grocery store down in the town.

The setup was great but there was something sad for me about the trip. I was feeling depressed and couldn’t shake it. Kendall and I spent time in front of the fireplace talking and reminiscing and planning. And we made love the first two nights and on Sunday morning. But by Monday we had stopped talking about anything that mattered, and I sat most of the day in front of the flat-screen, watching CNN reports on the ongoing impeachment saga as well as the mystery virus in China. The Centers for Disease Control had announced that it was deploying medical staff to LAX to meet flights from Wuhan and check passengers for fever and other symptoms of illness. Those who were determined to be sick would be quarantined.

The news was a diversion. I had made a good show of it, turning my phone off and never pulling it out of the suitcase the whole weekend. But I couldn’t take my mind off other things. The weight of what was ahead and the stakes involved was coming down on me.

I had the premonition that Kendall and I were spending our last days together, that her return to L.A. and our trying to rekindle our romance would ultimately be a failed experiment. I couldn’t pinpoint exactly why this was. But thoughts intruded about Maggie and the meeting at USC that had briefly reunited our lost family. And the kiss. It was amazing to me how something so casual, quick, and unexpected could shake the fragile foundations of the relationship at hand.

30

Tuesday, January 21

When Tuesday dawned with a gray overcast sky and heavy fog cover between the island and the mainland, it somehow seemed appropriate to me.

The dread that had steadily built through the weekend was confirmed shortly after I turned on my phone for the first time in three and a half days. Just as we were about to check out and head to the boat, I got a call from Jennifer Aronson.

“Mickey, where are you?”

“Catalina.”

“What?”

“Kendall and I went for the weekend. I told you. Anyway, we’re about to head back. What’s up?”

“I just got a call from Berg. They want you to turn yourself in. They dropped the current murder charge against you this morning, then got a grand jury indictment for murder with special circumstances — financial gain.”

That meant no bail. I remained silent for a long moment and thought about Drucker going through my Sam Scales files. What did he take? Was there something in my files that had led to this?

Kendall noticed the look on my face and whispered, “What is it?”

I shook my head. I would tell her after the call. At the moment I had to come up with a strategy for dealing with this.

“Okay,” I said. “Call Warfield’s clerk. See if you can get on the calendar in the afternoon. I’ll turn myself in then and there. But we—”

“What?” Kendall shrieked.

I held a hand up to quiet her and continued with Jennifer.

“We ask for a probable-cause hearing on the special-circumstances allegation. This is bullshit.”

“But the grand jury indictment obviates a preliminary hearing. It presumes probable cause.”

“Doesn’t matter. We need to get in front of the judge and convince her that this is a bullshit attempt by the prosecution to tilt the board and reset the game clock.”

“Okay, that’s the angle. Speedy trial. I can work on that. You need to get back here and be ready to argue. I think this is one where you need to address the court.”

“Absolutely. You take probable cause and I’ll take the speedy-trial argument. I’m on my way. Let me know if they’re going to wait till the hearing or try to pick me up ahead of that. I’ve got the ankle monitor, so they can find me if they want to.”

“I’m on it.”

We disconnected and I turned to Kendall.

“We have to go. They’re going to arrest me again.”

“How can they do that?”

“They dropped the original case, then went to the grand jury and got an indictment, and it all starts again.”

“You’re going to jail?”

She put her arms around me and hugged me as though she wouldn’t let them take me away.

“I’m going to do my best to get in front of the judge and argue against it. So we should go.”

The ride on the Catalina Express back to San Pedro was through a thick fog. This time Kendall and I stayed inside the cabin, sipping hot coffee and trying to remain calm. I walked her through the steps Berg had taken in turning me into a wanted man. Untrained in the law, Kendall said it was unfair even if it was a valid legal maneuver. And I couldn’t argue with that. The prosecutor was using completely legal means to subvert a completely legal process.

The crossing was slowed by the thick blanket of fog and it was an hour before I heard and felt the boat’s big engines thrum down as we slowly approached the harbor. I had not heard back from Jennifer and didn’t know if I would be met at the dock by police who had tracked my monitor. I got up and moved to a forward-viewing window. If I was about to be arrested, I needed to prep Kendall on what to do and whom to call.

The fog started to thin as we entered the harbor, and I saw the green span of the Vincent Thomas Bridge appear in the mist. Soon I saw the ferry terminal, but I noticed no sign of law enforcement on the dock. The parking lot where I had left the Lincoln was not in view because of the terminal building. I returned to Kendall and handed her the keys to the Lincoln.

“In case they’re waiting for me,” I said.

“Oh my god, Mickey! Do you think they are?” she said.

“Take it easy. I didn’t see anybody on the dock and that’s where they’d most likely be waiting. It’ll probably be fine, but just in case, you have the keys and can drive back. But before you go anywhere, you call Jennifer and tell her what’s happening. She’ll know what to do. I’m going to text you her contact.”

“Okay.”

“Then call Hayley and tell her too.”

“Okay. I can’t believe they’re doing this.”

She started to cry and I hugged her and assured her that everything would be okay. Privately I wasn’t as certain as I sounded.

We got off the boat and to the Lincoln without being stopped. My phone buzzed as we were getting in the car. It was Jennifer but I didn’t answer. I was paranoid and felt like a sitting duck. I wanted to get out of the parking lot and onto the freeway. A moving target was always harder to get a bead on.

Once we were on the 110 going north, I called Jennifer back.

“We’re on the calendar for three o’clock.”

“Good. And they aren’t going to try to grab me in the meantime?”

“That’s what Berg told the judge. You’ll be allowed to surrender in her courtroom following a hearing at three.”

“Did Berg object to the hearing?”

“I don’t know, but probably. But Warfield’s clerk tipped me that the judge is a bit upset about this — about the bail part, since she set bail and now the D.A.’s trying to take it away. So we’ll have that going for us when we go in.”

“Good. When and where do you want to meet beforehand?”

“I need time to work on points for your argument. How about one? We could meet in the cafeteria at the courthouse.”

I checked the dashboard clock. It was already ten thirty.

“One is good but not the courthouse. Too many badges around there, and somebody might try to be a hero and hook me up. Let’s not get to the courthouse till it’s time for the hearing.”

“Got it. Where, then?”

“How about Rossoblu? Since I might be back on a baloney diet after today, I’m going to eat some pasta for lunch.”

“Okay, I’ll be there.”

“One more thing if you have time. Get a message to the twins who have been covering this for the papers. Make sure they know about the hearing. I’d do it but I want to be able to say I didn’t if Berg accuses me of it again. Still, the media should be there to see this bullshit.”

“I’ll call them.”

We disconnected and Kendall immediately spoke.

“I want to be with you in court.”

“That would be nice. And I’ll call Hayley when we get home. I need to put on a suit and work a little bit on what I’m going to say to the judge, and then we’ll go to lunch.”

I knew it was going to be a working lunch and Kendall shouldn’t be there because she was outside the privilege circle. But I also knew that my freedom could be down to these last few hours. I didn’t want to exclude her.

It took us almost an hour to get to the house. I parked at the curb next to the stairs, still not wanting to use the garage. Bishop was sitting on the stairs, waiting. I had told him Friday we would start at ten on Tuesday, and he had been waiting. I had forgotten about him.

Kendall went up the stairs while I got our suitcase out of the trunk.

“Let me help you with that,” Bishop said.

“You’re my driver, not my valet, Bishop,” I said. “You been waiting long?”

“Not too long.”

“Sorry about that. But you’re going to have to wait another hour while I get ready and do some work inside. Then we’ll head downtown. You might be driving Kendall back by herself.”

“What about you? I go back for you?”

“I don’t think so. They’re going to try to put me back in jail today, Bishop.”

“They can do that? You got bail.”

“They can try. They’re the government. The beast. And the game is always rigged in the beast’s favor.”

I lugged the suitcase up the stairs and through the front door. Kendall was standing in the living room, holding an envelope out to me.

“Somebody slid this under the door,” she said.

I took the envelope and studied it while rolling the suitcase to the bedroom. It was a plain white envelope with nothing written on either side of it. The flap was not sealed.

After putting the suitcase on the bed for unpacking, I opened the envelope. It contained a single folded document. It was a photocopy of the face sheet of a Ventura County Sheriff’s Department arrest report dated December 1, 2018. The suspect arrested on suspicion of fraud was identified on the form as Sam Scales. The summary stated that Scales had used the name Walter Lennon to set up a funding site to raise money for the families of victims killed in a mass shooting the month before in a bar in Thousand Oaks. I didn’t need the arrest report to remember the incident at the Borderline Bar & Grill. A sheriff’s deputy and twelve customers were killed. The money-raising scam appeared to be very similar to the one Scales went to prison in Nevada for.

I walked into the home office to the desk, where I had left my case files. I was sure that the Ventura County arrest was not on the rap sheet we had received in discovery from the District Attorney’s Office. I opened the victim folder and found the arrest record. There was no listing of the arrest in December 2018.

Kendall followed me into the office.

“What is it?” she asked.

“An arrest report for Sam Scales,” I said. “A case over a year ago in Ventura County.”

“What does it mean?”

“Well, it’s not on the rap sheet the prosecution gave us in discovery.”

The face sheet of the arrest report was a form with various windows and boxes below the handwritten summary. Under the box where fraud had been checked off was another checklist where the box marked interstate had a slash through it. At the bottom of the list was a line where the author of the form had written “FBI–LA.”

“Were they trying to hide it from you?” Kendall asked.

I looked up at her.

“What?”

“Was the prosecutor trying to hide that arrest from you?”

“I think they didn’t know about it. I think the FBI came and scooped Sam up.”

Kendall looked confused but I did not explain further. My mind was racing ahead to the possibilities of what the arrest report could mean.

“I have to make a call,” I said.

I pulled my phone and called Harry Bosch. He answered right away.

“Harry, it’s me. I’m meeting Jennifer for lunch downtown, then I have to go to court. Can you meet us? I have something you need to see.”

“Where?”

“Rossoblu at one.”

“Rossoblu? Where’s that?”

“City Market South, off Eleventh.”

“I’ll be there.”

I disconnected. I felt a push of momentum. The arrest report could confirm a lot of things about Sam Scales and the case. It could also be a way to penetrate the FBI wall.

“Who put that under the door?” Kendall asked.

I thought about Agent Ruth but didn’t say her name.

“I think it was somebody who wanted to do the right thing,” I said.

31

In anticipation of my return to custody, the courtroom had three times the number of deputies usually on hand for a hearing involving a noncustodial defendant. They were posted by the door, in the gallery, and on the other side of the gate. It was clear from the start that no one was planning on my leaving the way I had come in.

My daughter had been unable to take me up on an invitation to lunch because of a class but now was in the front row of the gallery, directly behind the defense table. She sat next to Lorna, who sat next to Cisco. I hugged Hayley and spoke to each of them, trying to be encouraging even though it was hard for me to be encouraged myself.

“Dad, this is so unfair,” Hayley said.

“Nobody ever said the law is fair, Hay,” I told her. “Remember that.”

I moved down the line to Cisco. He had not been to lunch and didn’t know about the arrest report that had been slipped under my door. I had chosen Bosch to run with it because of his law enforcement pedigree. I believed he was better suited to make contact with the Ventura County sheriff’s investigator who had arrested Sam Scales.

“Anything new?” I asked.

He knew I was talking about the surveillance and the hopes of locating Louis Opparizio.

“Not as of this morning,” he said. “The guy’s a ghost.”

I nodded, disappointed, and then moved through the gate to the defense table, where I sat down alone and collected my thoughts. I had beat Jennifer to the courtroom from our lunch because she had to find parking in the black hole while I’d had Bishop drop Kendall and me at the front door. I looked at notes from our lunch meeting and rehearsed in my mind what I would say to the judge. I had never been nervous or intimidated in a courtroom. I had always felt at home and fed off the animosity that was usually directed at the defense from the prosecution table, the bench, sometimes even the jury box. But this was different. I knew that if I failed here, I would be the one who was escorted through the steel door into lockup. Before, when I was arrested, there had been no opportunity to argue my case before being booked. This time I had a chance. It was a long shot because the state was within the rule of law in making its moves. But that didn’t make it right and I had to convince the judge of that.

My concentration broke when I noticed Dana Berg and her bow-tied second take seats at the prosecution table. I didn’t turn to look at them. I didn’t say good afternoon. This had gotten personal, with Berg repeatedly seeking to take away my freedom to prepare my case unfettered. She was now the enemy and I would treat her as such.

Jennifer slid into the seat next to me.

“Sorry, no parking in the black hole,” she said. “I had to go down to a pay lot on Main.”

She seemed out of breath. The parking lot must have been more than a few blocks down Main.

“No worries,” I said. “I’m ready to go.”

She turned in her seat to acknowledge our line of supporters, then turned back to me.

“Bosch not coming?” she asked.

“I think he wanted to get going,” I said. “You know, head up to Ventura.”

“Right.”

“Listen, if this doesn’t turn out the way we want it to and I go back to Twin Towers, you’ll need to deal with Bosch on the Ventura thing. Make sure there’s no paper. He’s not used to how we work things on the defense side. No paper, no discovery. Okay?”

“Got it. But things are going to work out, Mickey. We’re going to tag-team them and we are a damn good team.”

“I hope so. I like your confidence — even if the whole legislature and penal code is against us.”

I turned and made one more sweep of the gallery, making momentary eye contact with the two reporters who were in their usual places in the second row.

A few minutes later the deputy called the courtroom to order as Judge Warfield came through the door to chambers and took the bench.

“Back on the record with California versus Michael Haller,” she said. “We have new charges filed in the case, warranting a custody-and-arraignment hearing as well as a reading of the indictment. And we have a six-eight-six motion from the defense as well. Let’s start with the charges.”

I waived a formal reading of the indictment.

“How do you plead?” Warfield asked.

“Not guilty,” I said crisply.

“Very well,” Warfield said. “Now let us take up the issue of pretrial release or detention. And I have a feeling we are going to have a lot of back-and-forth between the lawyers today, so let’s remain at our respective tables to reduce traffic and time. Please speak loudly and clearly when addressing the court so the record will be clear. What is the position of the People, Ms. Berg?”

Berg stood up at the prosecution table.

“Thank you, Your Honor,” she began. “This morning, previous charges in this case were dropped after the Los Angeles County grand jury delivered an indictment of J. Michael Haller on a charge of first-degree murder under special circumstances outlined by the state legislature, to wit, murder for financial gain. It is the People’s position that this is a no-bail offense and we are seeking detention pending trial. There is a presumption—”

“I’m well aware of what the law presumes, Ms. Berg,” Warfield said. “I am sure Mr. Haller is as well.”

Warfield seemed annoyed by the state’s effort to incarcerate me and also by having her hands tied in the matter. She appeared to write something on a document up on the bench. She took a few moments to finish before looking down at me.

“Mr. Haller, I assume you want to be heard?” she asked.

I rose from my seat.

“Yes, Your Honor,” I said. “But first I’d like to know whether the state is seeking the death penalty under this new charge.”

“Good question,” Warfield said. “That would change things considerably, Ms. Berg. Has your office decided to seek the death penalty in your case against Mr. Haller?”

“No, Your Honor,” Berg said. “The People will waive the death penalty.”

“You have your answer, Mr. Haller,” the judge said. “Do you have anything else?”

“Yes, I do, Judge,” I said. “Legal precedent holds that once the death penalty has been taken off the table, this is no longer a capital case, notwithstanding that I face a sentence of life without parole. Ms. Berg must also convince the court that guilt is evident and the presumption thereof is great. In and of itself, the indictment is insufficient to prove that guilt is evident, and Ms. Aronson will further address this issue.”

Jennifer stood.

“Your Honor, Jennifer Aronson, representing Mr. Haller on this issue,” she said. “Mr. Haller will argue the six-eight-six motion himself when that comes up. As to the indictment before the court, it is the defense’s position that the prosecution has gone outside the bounds of fair play to deprive Mr. Haller of his freedom as he prepares to defend himself in this matter. This is no more than a ploy to handicap Mr. Haller’s ability to defend himself by putting him in a jail cell, where he cannot work full-time on his defense, is in constant danger from other prisoners, and risks his health as well.”

She looked down at her notes before continuing.

“The defense also challenges the allegation of special circumstances in this case,” she said. “Though we have not seen this new evidence that the prosecution claims will show Mr. Haller’s financial gain from the murder of Samuel Scales, it is preposterous to think, let alone prove, that his death would in any way result in gain to Mr. Haller.”

Warfield was again writing when Jennifer finished, and Berg took the opportunity to respond. She stood and addressed the judge while the pen was still moving in her hand.

“Your Honor, the indictment by the grand jury precludes a preliminary hearing on the charges, and the state would object to turning this hearing into a determination of probable cause. The legislature is quite clear on that.”

“Yes, I know the rules, Ms. Berg,” Warfield said. “But the legislature also gives a superior court judge in this state the power of discretion. I join Ms. Aronson in being troubled by this move by the prosecution. Are you prepared for the court to use its discretion and rule on bail in this matter without providing further support of probable cause?”

“A moment, Your Honor,” Berg said.

For the first time today, I looked over at the prosecution table. Berg was conferring with her second. It was clear that the judge, a former defense attorney, did not approve of the game Berg was playing to put me back in jail. It was put-up-or-shut-up time, no matter what she had been able to run by the grand jury. I saw the second open one of the files in front of him and take out a document. He handed it to Berg, who then straightened up to address the court.

“May it please the court, the People wish to call a witness in this matter,” she said.

“Who is the witness?” Warfield asked.

“Detective Kent Drucker. He will introduce a document that I am sure the court will see in support of probable cause regarding the special-circumstances allegation.”

“Call your witness.”

I had not seen Drucker earlier, but there he was in the front row of the gallery. He got up and went through the gate. He was sworn in and took the stand. Berg began by eliciting from him the details of the searches conducted of my home and warehouse, as well as the home of Lorna Taylor.

“Let’s talk specifically about the records you searched at the warehouse,” Berg then said. “What exactly were you looking at there?”

“These were nonprivileged files relating to the business of Michael Haller’s law practice,” Drucker said.

“In other words, the billing of clients?”

“Correct.”

“And was there a file relating to Sam Scales?”

“There were several because Haller had represented him in a number of cases over the years.”

“And in searching these files, did you find any documents pertinent to your investigation of his murder?”

“I did.”

Berg then went through the formality with the judge of gaining approval to show the witness a document he had found in my files. I had no idea what it could be until the prosecutor dropped off a copy at the defense table after handing the judge’s copy to her clerk. Jennifer and I leaned toward each other so we could read it at the same time.

It was a copy of a letter apparently sent to Sam Scales in 2016 while he was awaiting sentencing for a fraud conviction.

“Lorna wrote this,” I whispered. “I never saw it. Besides, it means nothing.”

Jennifer stood and objected.

“Your Honor, may I voir dire?” she asked.

It was a fancy way of asking if she could question the witness about the origin and relevancy of the document before the judge accepted it as a prosecution exhibit.

“You may,” Warfield said.

“Detective Drucker,” Jennifer began. “This letter is unsigned, true?”

“That is true, but it was in Mr. Haller’s files,” Drucker said.

“Do you know what the ‘p.p.’ before Mr. Haller’s printed name means?”

“It’s Latin for pro per-something.”

“Per procurationem — do you know what it means?”

“That it was sent under his name but he didn’t actually sign it.”

“You said you found this in Mr. Haller’s files. So it was never mailed?”

“We believe it is a copy and the original was sent.”

“Based on what?”

“Based on it being found in a file marked ‘Correspondence.’ Why would he keep a file full of letters he didn’t send? It makes no sense.”

“What evidence do you have that this letter was ever mailed or delivered directly to Mr. Scales?”

“I assume it was mailed or delivered. How else would Mr. Haller expect to get paid?”

“Do you have any evidence that Mr. Scales ever received this letter?”

“Again, no. But that is not what is important about the letter.”

“Then, what is important about the letter?”

“Mr. Haller says he knows that Sam Scales kept a fund to pay his lawyer and he wanted another seventy-five thousand. That is motive to kill.”

“Do you suppose that Mr. Haller knew about the fund because Sam Scales told him?”

“That would make sense.”

“Did Sam Scales reveal to Mr. Haller where he kept that fund and how to access it?”

“I have no idea, but it would be covered under attorney-client privilege.”

“If you can’t show that Mickey Haller knows where Sam Scales kept his money, how can you claim that he killed Sam Scales for his money?”

Berg had had enough and stood.

“I object, Your Honor,” she said. “This isn’t voir dire. Ms. Aronson is conducting a discovery deposition.”

“I can see what she is doing, Ms. Berg,” Warfield said. “And she has made her point. Anything further, Ms. Aronson?”

Jennifer checked me and I gave a slight shake of my head, reminding her that a lawyer should always quit talking when she’s ahead.

“No further questions at this time, Your Honor,” she said. “It is clear from the detective’s testimony as well as the document that it was not signed or written by Mr. Haller and has no relevancy to this hearing.”

“Judge, the relevancy is clear,” Berg countered. “Whether or not it was signed by the defendant, it was sent by his office and it references a meeting he attended. It is clearly relevant because it speaks to the issues and motives surrounding this crime — that the defendant was owed money and knew that Sam Scales, the victim, had the money and wouldn’t part with it. We have further documentation we are ready to present that shows the defendant filed a lien against the victim in furtherance of collecting his money. That lien is now lodged against the estate. If money is found, the defendant is in line to receive it, plus interest. He could not get Sam Scales to pay him in life — he hopes to collect from him in death.”

“Objection!” Jennifer yelled.

“Ms. Berg, you know better,” Warfield said. “Leave your sound bites for the reporters, not this court.”

“Yes, Your Honor,” Berg said, her tone falsely contrite.

The judge dismissed Drucker from the witness stand. I knew it was fruitless. The judge would either be canny and object to what the prosecution was doing or let it slide. Warfield asked if there was any further argument and Berg demurred while Jennifer asked to address the court.

“Thank you, Your Honor,” she said. “The court noted earlier that it has wide discretion over bail. The bail schedule is meant to protect the community as well as ensure that defendants accused of crimes are held to answer. To these points, I believe it is clear that Michael Haller is neither a threat to the community nor a threat to flee. He has been free on bond now for six weeks and he hasn’t attempted to flee. He hasn’t threatened the community or anyone associated with this case. In fact, he has sought and received the court’s permission to leave the county and state and yet returned the same night. Your Honor, you do have discretion in the matter and it is in pursuit of a fair trial in this case that I ask that bond be carried over from the original charge and that Mr. Haller be allowed to remain free to defend himself.”

Berg’s comeback was only to remind the judge that rules were rules. She said judicial discretion did not extend to the findings of a grand jury or to the legislature’s decision to make murder for financial gain a no-bail charge.

She then sat down.

I didn’t think we had a winning argument, but the judge built anticipation in the courtroom as she wrote notes before speaking.

“We’ll hear the other motion before I make a decision on this matter,” she said. “We are going to take a ten-minute break first and then we’ll consider Mr. Haller’s six-eight-six motion. Thank you.”

The judge quickly left the bench. And I was left with ten minutes to figure out how to turn things around.

32

It might have been my last chance to walk the halls of the courthouse, even ride the elevator down and step outside to enjoy a few moments of free, fresh air, but I remained at the defense table during the ten-minute break, which actually lasted twenty. I wanted to be alone with my thoughts. I even told Jennifer I didn’t want her next to me when court resumed. She might have been hurt, but she understood my reasoning. It was me against the state, and while I would not be speaking to a jury, I wanted the judge to be reminded of the fact that I was one man standing alone against the power and might of the beast.

I composed myself to be ready at the ten-minute mark and then dealt with the anxiety of waiting in overtime. Finally Warfield came out and retook her position on the bench above everyone.

“Very well, back on the record,” she said. “We have a motion from the defense to compel a speedy trial. Mr. Haller, I see you are now alone at the defense table. You will be arguing this motion?”

I stood up.

“Yes, Your Honor,” I said.

“Very well,” Warfield said. “I hope we can be succinct. Proceed.”

“If it please the court, I will be succinct. What the prosecution has done with its grand jury indictment is attempt to subvert the law and my constitutionally guaranteed right to a speedy trial. It’s a shell game, Your Honor, played by the prosecution not in the furtherance of justice but in the gaming of it. There have been two constants since the very first minutes of this case. One is that I have steadfastly denied these charges and claimed my innocence. The other is my refusal under any circumstances to delay these proceedings for any amount of time.”

I paused for a moment and looked down at the notes I had scribbled on my legal pad. I didn’t need them. I was on a roll. But I wanted the space so the judge could take in my argument in pieces.

“Since day one I have demanded my right to a speedy trial,” I continued. “I have said put up or shut up to the state. I did not commit this crime and I demand my day in court. And as that day has drawn closer and the prosecution knows it’s almost time, they have blinked. They know their case is weak. They know it is full of holes. They know I have innocence and reasonable doubt on my side and they have attempted to thwart my defense at every turn.”

I paused again, this time turning slightly to look back at my daughter and offer a wistful smile. No man should have his daughter see him in this position.

I turned back.

“Judge, every lawyer’s got a bag of tricks — prosecutor, defense attorney, doesn’t matter. There is nothing pure about the law when you get inside a courtroom. It’s a bare-knuckle fight and each side uses whatever it can to bludgeon the other. The constitution guarantees me a speedy trial, but by dropping the original charge and talking a grand jury into a new one, the prosecution is trying to bludgeon me in two ways: stick me in a jail cell so I am handicapped in preparing my defense, and restart the game clock so the state has more time to wield its power and might and shore up their losing case against me.”

This time I kept my eyes on the judge as I paused before the windup.

“Is it legal? Is it within code? Perhaps. I’ll give them that. But is it fair? Is it in the pursuit of justice? Not a chance. You can stick me back in jail, you can delay the search for truth that a trial is supposed to be, but it won’t be the right thing to do and it won’t be fair. The court holds a lot of discretion in this regard and the defense urges you not to restart the clock. Let’s get to the search for the truth now instead of later, instead of at the prosecution’s convenience. Thank you, Your Honor.”

If my words had any impact on Warfield, she didn’t show it. She didn’t write anything down as she had during the earlier motion. She simply swiveled six inches in her high-backed, leather chair so that her gaze shifted from me to the prosecution table.

“Ms. Berg?” she said. “Would the state like to respond?”

“Yes, Your Honor,” Berg said. “I promise to be more succinct than the defense. In fact, Mr. Haller made my argument for me. What we have done with the refiling of the case through grand jury indictment is firmly within the bounds of the law as well as something that happens routinely in this courthouse and courthouses across the country. It is not a do-over or a delay tactic. I am charged with seeking true justice for the victim of this cold-blooded murder. Through the grand jury and the presentation of evidence from the ongoing investigation, we have elected to upgrade the charges in the pursuit of justice.”

In my peripheral vision I saw Berg glance my way as she threw my own words back at me. I did not give her the satisfaction of a look back.

“Your Honor, the case against the defendant is strong and getting stronger as the investigation of this crime continues. That’s what the defendant knows, that is what he is trying to subvert: a search for truth with all the evidence on the table. It is his hope that by hurrying into trial, he can stop the mounting evidence from crushing him. That won’t happen, because the truth is inevitable. Thank you.”

The judge paused before speaking, possibly waiting to see whether I would stand to object or respond to Berg. She even swiveled her chair back toward me as if expecting it. But I held my ground. I had made my points and there was no need to restate them.

“This is a novel situation,” Warfield began. “It has been my experience as a judge — and as a defense attorney in a prior life — that it is the defendant who most often seeks delays, seemingly in an effort to put off the inevitable. But not in this case. And so the arguments today give me pause. Mr. Haller clearly wants this behind him — no matter the outcome. He also wants to be free to build his case.”

The judge swiveled toward Berg.

“On the other hand, the state gets only one shot at this,” she said. “There are no do-overs and therefore time to prepare is key. There are new charges in the case and the state bears the responsibility of being able to support those charges to a level far above the probable-cause threshold found by the grand jury. The burden of proof — proving guilt beyond a reasonable doubt — is just as heavy as the burden carried by the defense.”

The judge straightened her seat and leaned forward, clasping her hands together.

“The court is inclined in these matters to split the baby. And I will let the defense choose how that split is made. Mr. Haller, you decide. I will continue your bail with all the existing restrictions but you will waive your right to a speedy trial. Or I will revoke bail but refuse to change the case calendar, leaving the start of trial on this matter set for the eighteenth of February. How do you wish to proceed?”

Before I could stand and respond, Berg did.

“Your Honor,” she said urgently. “May I be heard?”

“No, Ms. Berg,” the judge said. “The court has heard all it needs to hear. Mr. Haller, will you make a choice, or would you like me to allow Ms. Berg to choose?”

I stood slowly.

“A moment, Your Honor?” I asked.

“Make it fast, Mr. Haller,” Warfield said. “I am in an uncomfortable position that I will not hold for long.”

I turned toward the railing behind the defense table and looked at my daughter. I signaled her closer and she slid forward on her seat, putting her hands on top of the rail. I leaned down and put my hands on top of hers.

“Hayley, I want this over with,” I whispered. “I didn’t do this and I think I can prove it. I want to go in February. You going to be okay with that?”

“Dad, it was so hard when they had you in jail before,” she whispered back. “Are you sure?”

“It’s like what you and your mother and I talked about. I’m free right now, but inside I feel like I’m still locked up as long as this is hanging over me. I need it to be over.”

“I know. But I worry.”

From behind me I heard the judge.

“Mr. Haller,” she said. “We are waiting.”

I kept my eyes on my daughter.

“It’s going to be all right,” I said.

I quickly leaned over the rail and kissed her on the forehead. I then glanced at Kendall and nodded. I could tell by the look of surprise on her face that she expected more, she expected to be consulted. That I had sought my daughter’s approval on this choice rather than hers might doom our relationship. But I did what I felt I had to do.

I turned back to the judge and announced my decision.

“Your Honor, I surrender myself to the court at this time,” I said. “And I will be ready to defend myself on the charges on February eighteenth as scheduled. I am innocent, Judge, and the faster I can get to a jury to prove it, the better.”

The judge nodded, seemingly not surprised but concerned by my decision.

“Very well, Mr. Haller,” she said.

She made it official with rulings from the bench, but not without a final objection from the prosecution.

“Your Honor,” Berg said. “The People ask that your ruling on the trial date be stayed while under review by the Second District Court of Appeal.”

Warfield looked at her for a long moment before replying. It is always a risky move to tell a judge you are appealing a ruling from the bench when you still have a whole trial before the same judge ahead of you. Judges are supposed to be impartial, but when you announce you are going to a higher court to complain that your lower court judge was in error, well, there are ways for that jurist to even the score down the line. A perfect example is what Judge Hagan did to me at my first appearance on this case. I had reversed him twice on appeal. He paid me back by slapping me with a $5 million bail. He all but winked and smiled at me when he did it. Berg was walking a similar line with Warfield now, and it looked like the judge was giving her a few seconds to reconsider.

But Berg waited her out.

“Ms. Berg, I’ll now give you a choice,” Warfield finally said. “I won’t stay the ruling on the six-eight-six motion without staying the ruling on Mr. Haller’s bail revocation. So if you want a stay while you appeal, then Mr. Haller remains free under the current bail arrangement until you get a ruling from the appellate court.”

The two women locked eyes for a tense five seconds before the prosecutor responded.

“Thank you, Your Honor,” Berg said coldly. “The People withdraw the request for a stay.”

“Very well,” Warfield responded with just as much ice. “Then I think we are adjourned here.”

As the judge stood up, the deputies in the room moved toward me. I was going back to Twin Towers.

33

Friday, January 24

I was placed back in K-10, the high-power module at Twin Towers where they housed inmates on keep-away status. The only problem I had with this was that I wanted to be kept away from the jailers more than from the jailed. The investigation that had followed the eavesdropping scandal had put the mark on me and I knew the potential that the jail deputies would get back at me physically had increased exponentially.

Bishop was long gone and I needed new protection. In a way, I held auditions. I spoke to a handful of men in the module the morning after my arrival, attempting to learn whom I might be able to trust, who might have greater enmity for the hacks than I did. I settled on a guy named Carew, who was physically impressive and being held on a murder charge. I didn’t know the details of the case and didn’t ask for them. But I learned that he had private counsel and I knew that a murder defense cost serious money. I offered him four hundred a week to watch my back and settled the negotiation at five hundred delivered weekly to his attorney.

The days in the jail fell into the same routine as the earlier stint, with my team coming in to conference most afternoons at three. It seemed that our nets had already been cast and we were in the stage where we were looking through the catch and devising our strategy. My energy and outlook remained high. I was confident in the case. I just wanted to get to it.

The only break from the routine came three days after my re-arrest when I was taken to the visitors’ center and sat down in front of my first ex-wife, Maggie McPherson. Her coming to see me embarrassed me and made my heart swell at once.

“Is anything wrong?” I said. “Is Hayley all right?”

“Everything’s fine out here,” she said. “I just wanted to see you. How are you, Mickey?”

I was ashamed of my situation and my jailhouse blues. I could imagine how I must appear to her, especially after her taking exception to the way I had looked outside jail.

“All things considered, I’m okay,” I said. “The trial’s soon and this will all be over.”

“Are you ready?” she asked.

“More than ready. I think we’re going to win this thing.”

“Good. I don’t want our daughter to lose her father.”

“She won’t. She’s what keeps me going.”

Maggie nodded and said nothing more on it. I read the reason for her visit as her checking on my health and state of mind.

“It means a lot to me that you came here,” I said.

“Of course,” she said. “And if you need anything, call me — collect.”

“I will. Thanks.”

The visit only lasted fifteen minutes but I came away from it feeling stronger. With family, as splintered as it was, behind me, I felt like I couldn’t lose.

34

Wednesday, February 5

The silk suit felt good against my skin. It eased the itch from the prison rash I had developed over most of my body. I sat quietly next to Jennifer Aronson at the defense table and savored the moment of pseudofreedom and relief. I had been taken to court for a hearing requested by the prosecution, which was seeking sanctions for alleged foul play on the part of the defense. But no matter what the cause, I was happy to be pulled out of Twin Towers for any reason for any amount of time.

Over the years I’d had many incarcerated clients who exhibited and complained about prison rash. Visits to the jail clinic didn’t cure it or explain it. Its origin was unknown. It had been suggested that the industrial detergent used on the jail bedding and laundry caused it, or that there was something in the material used in the thin mattresses in the cells. Others said it was an allergic reaction to confinement. Still others called it the manifestation of guilt. All I knew was that I didn’t get it the first time around at Twin Towers and then I got it bad the second. The difference was that in between stays, I had been the root cause of another damaging internal investigation of the jail system. This made me think that the jail deputies were behind it — that the rash that kept me itching and awake at night was a form of payback. They had spiked my food or my laundry or my cell in some way.

I kept this belief to myself to avoid being considered paranoid. My physical decline and weight loss was continuing and I wanted no one to add concerns about mental acuity to the question of whether I could adequately defend myself. Maybe it was the suit or maybe it was the courtroom. All I knew was that my preoccupation with the malady went away as soon as I left the jail and was put on the bus.

On the way over, the bus had passed two painted murals depicting Kobe Bryant. The famed Lakers basketball star had been killed with his daughter and others in a helicopter crash only ten days earlier and already the street memorials were up in solemn testimony to his transcending mastery of his sport to reach iconic status, in a city where the climb to that level was already so crowded.

I heard the soft thud of the courtroom door closing and turned to see that Kendall Roberts had entered. She gave a secretive wave as she came down the center aisle. I smiled. She moved down the first row and sat directly behind the defense table.

“Hey, Mickey.”

“Kendall, you didn’t have to come all the way down. This probably is going to be a pretty quick hearing.”

“It’s still better than the fifteen minutes they give you at the jail.”

“Well, thanks.”

“Also, I wanted to—”

She stopped when she saw Chan, the courtroom deputy, moving toward us to order me to stop communicating with people in the gallery. I held my hand up to signal that I was halting the violation. I turned forward and leaned toward Jennifer.

“Do you mind telling Kendall that I’ll call her later when I can get to the phone in the module?”

“Not at all.”

Jennifer got up to whisper to Kendall and I went back to staring straight ahead and feeling the tension leak out of my muscles and spine. You never stopped looking over your shoulder in Twin Towers. I savored these moments when I didn’t have to worry.

Jennifer returned to her seat. I finally came out of my reverie and got to work.

“So,” I said. “What’s the update on Opparizio?”

I had gotten the word during a team meeting Monday that the Indians had finally located him when they followed Jeannie Ferrigno to a rendezvous at a hotel in Beverly Hills. They dropped her and stayed with Opparizio, tailing him to a house in Brentwood that was held in an impenetrable blind trust.

“Same,” Jennifer said. “They’re ready to go with the subpoena when you give the word.”

“Okay, let’s wait till next week. But if it looks like he might be getting ready to split town, we need to serve him. He can’t get away.”

“We know, but I’ll remind Cisco.”

“We also serve the girlfriend then and his two other associates holding shares in BioGreen. And all of it on camera so we can show the judge if they don’t show up.”

“Got it.”

I glanced over at the prosecution table. Berg was by herself today. No bow-tie backup. She was looking at a handwritten document and I guessed that she was rehearsing her argument. She sensed my gaze.

“Hypocrite,” she said.

“Excuse me?” I said.

“You heard me. You talk about tilting the board all the time and the prosecution not playing fair, and then you pull a stunt like this.”

“Like what?”

“I’m sure you know what this is about. Like I said and you heard, you’re a hypocrite, Haller. And a murderer.”

I looked at her for a long moment and I could see it in her eyes. She was a true believer. She had me down as a killer. It’s one thing when the cops think it — most of them can’t see the difference between a defense lawyer and a defendant. But in the world of trial lawyers, I had for the most part encountered respect from both sides of the aisle. That Berg believed I was capable of putting a man in a trunk and shooting him three times was a reminder of what I was facing at the trial ahead: a true believer who wanted to put me away forever.

“You’re so wrong,” I said. “You’re so blinded by the lies you’ve been told by—”

“Save it for the jury, Haller,” she said.

The verbal confrontation ended with Deputy Chan announcing that court was coming to order. Judge Warfield stepped through the door at the back of the courtroom and took the bench. She quickly got down to business on California versus Haller and invited Berg to explain her request for sanctions against the defense. The prosecutor took the document she had been studying to the lectern with her.

“Your Honor, the defense in this case has repeatedly accused the People of playing unfair with discovery, and yet it is the defense that has engaged in deception all along,” Berg began.

“Ms. Berg,” the judge cut in. “I don’t need the preamble. Get to the point. If there is a discovery violation, please get to it.”

“Yes, Your Honor. On Monday, the latest witness lists were due from each side. And to our surprise, the defense actually put new names on their witness list. One name that stood out to us was Rose Marie Dietrich, whom the defense listed as the landlord of the victim in this case, Sam Scales.”

“Was this a witness the prosecution was not familiar with?”

“No, Your Honor, we were not familiar with her. I dispatched investigators to locate and talk to her and we learned that the reason she was not known to us is that Sam Scales used a false identity when he rented an apartment from her.”

“I’m not seeing the problem here as far as the defense goes, Ms. Berg.”

“Your Honor, the problem is in what Rose Marie Dietrich told us. She said that Mr. Haller and two of his investigators spoke with her three weeks ago about Sam Scales, who was using the name Walter Lennon when he rented the apartment. Additionally, she allowed Mr. Haller and his crew to look through the victim’s belongings, which were stored in the garage of the property. Unaware that Mr. Scales had been murdered in October, Dietrich and her husband boxed his belongings when he seemed to disappear without paying rent for December. They stored his property in the garage.”

“This is all very interesting, but where is the infraction the People are seeking sanctions for?”

“Judge, the point is that the defense had access to several boxes of belongings, including documents and mail, and yet three weeks later, nothing has come to the People in discovery. They didn’t put Rose Marie Dietrich’s name on their witness list until this week in order to ensure that when the prosecution got to Ms. Dietrich, it would have no access to the property.”

“Why would that be, Ms. Berg?”

“Because they were turned over to the Salvation Army after the defendant and his crew visited Ms. Dietrich. It is quite obvious that the defense had a strategy to keep whatever information was in the victim’s belongings from the People, Your Honor.”

“That is a lot of supposition. Do you have anything that backs that up?”

“We have a sworn statement from Rose Marie Dietrich that states unequivocally that she was told by the defendant that she could donate the property.”

“Then let me take a look at that.”

Berg dropped off a copy of the statement with me after handing one to the clerk for the judge. There was silence for a minute or so as Jennifer and I huddled together to read the witness statement at the same time as the judge.

“Okay, the court has read the document,” Warfield said. “I’d like to hear from Mr. Haller on this matter next.”

I got up and went to the lectern as Berg abandoned it. I had decided on the bus ride over to go full-on sarcastic with my response as opposed to full-on outraged.

“Good morning, Judge,” I said good-naturedly. “I would like to begin by saying that normally I would welcome any opportunity to leave the spare accommodations afforded me at the Twin Towers Correctional Facility, courtesy of Ms. Berg, to be in court, but this time I am baffled by the reason I’m here and the logic of her argument. It seems to me, Your Honor, that she should be seeking sanctions against her own team of investigators, not the defense.”

“Mr. Haller,” Warfield said in a tired tone. “As I said to Ms. Berg, let’s stay on point. Please respond directly to the discovery issue that the prosecution has raised.”

“Thank you, Judge. My response is to say there has been no discovery violation. I have no documents to turn over and I have hidden nothing from the prosecution. Yes, we went to the address in question and looked through the contents of the boxes stored there. I took nothing from those boxes, and I guarantee that Ms. Berg’s investigators asked Rose Marie Dietrich what we took. Unhappy with the response they got to that question, Ms. Berg chose not to include the answer in this piece of paper she claims is a statement of fact. It’s got some facts listed here, Judge, but not all of them.”

“Judge?” Berg said, rising from her seat.

“Your Honor, I’m not finished,” I said quickly.

“Ms. Berg, you had your turn,” Warfield said. “Let counsel finish and then you will get a chance to respond.”

Berg sat back down and started writing furiously on her legal pad.

“In closing, Your Honor,” I said. “There is no subterfuge here. The court recalls that three weeks ago in a teleconference hearing that Ms. Berg was party to, I asked permission to leave the county and state. I assume the court reporter has a record of that hearing, and it will reveal that the prosecution asked specifically whom I was going to see at High Desert State Prison in Nevada. And I said I was going to visit the former cellmate of the victim in this case. If Ms. Berg or any of the many investigators at her disposal had bothered to follow up and talk to that man in Nevada, they would have gotten the same address and alias for Sam Scales that I got, and in fact could have beaten me to the location we’re talking about here. Your Honor, again I say that this is nothing but sour grapes. The discovery obligations of the defense require that I turn over to Ms. Berg a witness list and copies of anything I intend to offer into evidence. I have done that. I am not required to share with Ms. Berg my interviews, observations, or other work product. She knows that. But since day one, the prosecution’s investigation has been lazy, sloppy, and shoddy. I am confident that I will prove that at trial, but the sad thing is, there shouldn’t be a trial. The prosecution has—”

“Okay, let me stop you right there, Mr. Haller,” the judge said. “I believe you have more than made your point. You can return to your seat now.”

“Thank you, Your Honor,” I said.

Usually when a judge tells you to sit down it means that all that needs to be said has been said and a decision has been made.

The judge swiveled in her chair and focused on Berg.

“Ms. Berg, do you recall the teleconference referred to by counsel?” she asked.

“Yes, Your Honor,” Berg said.

There was no emotion in her tone. She had taken the same cue I had when Warfield told me to sit down.

“It appears to me that the state had every opportunity to follow and find this location and the victim’s belongings,” Warfield said. “The court tends to agree with Mr. Haller that this is about work product and a missed opportunity, not about any gamesmanship on the part of the defense. Certainly nothing I would consider a violation of discovery.”

Berg stood but did not move to the lectern, a sign that her protest was going to be half-hearted, no matter what she had scribbled on her legal pad.

“He waited three weeks to put her on the witness list,” she said. “He was hiding her importance. There should have been a written report about the interview and the search of the property. That is exactly what the spirit and intention of discovery is.”

I started to rise to object but the judge made a signal with her hand, gesturing me back into my chair.

“Ms. Berg,” the judge intoned, the first note of annoyance in her voice. “If you are suggesting that Mr. Haller is under an obligation to document his investigation with reports of his moves and interviews just like a law enforcement agency and then immediately decide whether he will call Ms. Dietrich as a witness, then you must take me for a fool.”

“No, Your Honor,” Berg said quickly. “Not at all.”

“Very well, then. We’re done here. The motion for sanctions is denied.”

The judge looked over at the calendar that hung on the wall over the clerk’s corral.

“We are thirteen days from jury selection,” she said. “I am setting a hearing for next Thursday at ten a.m. for final motions. I want to handle everything on that day. That means, get your paperwork in with enough time for the court to consider it. I want no surprises. I will see you all then.”

The judge adjourned court and I felt the dread of incarceration return before Deputy Chan and his cohorts could even get to me.

35

Upon my second arrest I was placed back in a single-bed cell at Twin Towers. This time I had even graduated to the outside wall of the jail, which gave me a window — only four inches wide and escape-proof, but it had a partial view of the Criminal Courts Building just a few blocks away as the crow flies. It was enough of a view for me to want to stay in the cell with my eyes on the prize rather than congregate in the dayroom with the other keep-aways. And this, even though I had replaced Bishop with Carew.

So I was feeling safe and secure in the module. The problem was that there were no such protections on the jail buses that moved hundreds of inmates to and from court each day. Whom you rode with and whom you were chained to was mostly a matter of chance. Or so it appeared. No matter what measure I took to protect myself in custody, I was always going to be most vulnerable on the bus. I knew this for a fact because I’d had clients attacked on the buses. And I had seen fights break out and attacks staged while riding them myself.

After the hearing on the prosecution’s motion for sanctions, I waited two hours in the courthouse jail before being shuttled onto a bus back to the Towers. I was cuffed fourth on a chain behind three other men and moved onto the bus. We were put into the second-to-last compartment and I was seated against the barred window in the forward-facing bench. The deputy checked us, closed the gate and locked it, and proceeded to fill the next compartment. I leaned forward to look across the man next to me to the prisoner seated on my row against the opposite window. I recognized him but not from the keep-away module. I couldn’t place him. It could have been from court or a potential client meeting in which I didn’t take the case. He was checking me out as I was checking him. And that fired my paranoia. I knew I had to keep a watch on him.

The bus exited the garage beneath the courts building and trundled up the steep grade to Spring Street. As it turned left, City Hall was on the right side, and several prisoners followed the tradition of flipping the finger at the seat of power. This of course could not be seen by anyone on the marble steps or behind the windows of the iconic building. The bus’s “windows” were actually slotted metal that allowed a confined view out but no view in.

I watched the man I was curious about hold his hand up and extend the fuck-you finger. He did it so routinely, without even looking out through the slots himself, that I knew he was a regular guest of the system. And that was when I recognized him. He was the client of a colleague whom I had once filled in for during a hearing before a judge. It had been a babysitting job, a minor hearing that involved a court appearance. Dan Daly had been stuck in a trial and asked me to handle it and I did.

Satisfied that I had answered the question and that the man posed no special threat, I relaxed and leaned back in my seat, tilting my head up to look at the ceiling. I started counting the days until the start of my trial and how soon I could reasonably expect to walk free after a not-guilty verdict.

It was the last thing I remembered.

36

Thursday, February 6

I could only open my eyes to narrow slices of light. It wasn’t the harshness of the light that prevented me from opening them wider. It was physical impediment. I simply could not do it.

I was disoriented at first, not sure where I was.

“Mickey?”

I turned at the voice, recognized it. “Jennifer?”

The one word set fire to my throat, the pain so sharp I grimaced.

“Yes, I’m here. How do you feel?”

“I can’t see. What—”

“Your eyes are swollen. You burst a lot of blood vessels.”

I burst blood vessels? This didn’t make sense.

“What do you mean?” I asked. “How did I — ahh, it hurts to talk.”

“Don’t talk,” Jennifer said. “Just listen. We went over this an hour ago and then the sedation hit and you went out again. You were attacked, Mickey. On the jail bus after court yesterday.”

“Yesterday?”

“Don’t talk. Yes, you’ve lost a day. But if you can stay awake, I can get them in here to do the testing. They need to check your brain function to see if there was anything... so we’ll know if there is any... anything permanent.”

“What happened on the bus?”

The pain.

“I don’t know all the details and the sheriff’s investigator wants to talk to you about it — he’s waiting outside but I told him I was going to talk to you first. Basically, another man on the bus got his chain free and used it to choke you. He was behind you and wrapped it around your neck. They thought you were dead but paramedics revived you, Mickey. They say it’s a miracle you’re alive.”

“It doesn’t feel like a miracle. Where am I?”

I was beginning to be able to manage the pain. Talking in a monotone, turning my head slightly to the left seemed to lessen it.

“County-USC — the jail ward. Hayley and Lorna and everybody wanted to come in to see you but you’re on lockdown and they’d only let me in. I don’t think you want them seeing you like this anyway. Better to wait till the swelling goes down.”

I felt her hand grip my shoulder.

“Are we alone in here?” I asked.

“Yes,” Jennifer said. “This is an attorney-client meeting. There’s a deputy outside the door but it’s closed. Also, the investigator’s out there, waiting to talk to you.”

“Okay, listen, don’t let them use this to delay the trial.”

“Well, we’ll see, Mickey. You need to be tested to make sure you—”

“No, I’m fine, I can tell. I’m already thinking about the case and I don’t want to delay it. We have them where we want them and I don’t want to give them time to catch up to us. That’s it.”

“Okay, I’ll object if they try.”

“Who was the guy?”

“What guy?”

“The one who choked me with the chain.”

“I don’t know, I only got his name. Mason Maddox. Lorna put it through the conflict-of-interest app, and there were no hits. You have no prior history with him. He was convicted last month of three murders — I haven’t gotten the case details yet. He was in court for a motions hearing.”

“Who’s his lawyer? The PD?”

“I don’t have that information yet.”

“Why’d he do it? Who put him up to it?”

“If the Sheriff’s Department knows, they’re not sharing it with me. I have Cisco looking into it and a call in to Harry Bosch.”

“I don’t want to pull Cisco off trial prep. That could be the whole motive behind it.”

“No, because he tried to kill you and probably thought he did. You don’t kill a guy to distract his investigators. I filed a motion with Warfield today asking her to issue an order reinstituting bail or ordering the sheriff to transport you by car to and from court. No more buses. Too dangerous.”

“That’s good thinking.”

“I hope to get a hearing on it this afternoon. We’ll see.”

“Is there like a hand mirror around here or something?”

“Why?”

“I want to see myself.”

“Mickey, I don’t think you—”

“It’s all right. I just want to take a quick look and I’ll be fine.”

“I don’t see a mirror, but hold on, I have something.”

I heard her unzip her purse and then she put a small square object in my hand. A mirror from a makeup case. I held it up to my face and managed to get a glimpse. I looked like a boxer on the morning after a fight — and a losing bout at that. My eyes were swollen and the rash of exploded blood vessels extended from the corners of my eyes and across both cheeks.

“Jesus,” I said.

“Yeah, not a good look,” Jennifer said. “I still think you should let the doctor test you.”

“I’m going to be fine.”

“Mickey, there could be something and you should know.”

“But then the prosecution could know and they’ll use it to ask for a delay.”

There was a brief silence as Jennifer considered that and realized I was right.

“Okay, I’m getting tired,” I said. “Send in the investigator, let’s see what he says.”

“Are you sure?” she asked.

“Yes. And don’t pull Cisco off trial prep. When you hear from Bosch, put him on Mason Maddox. I want to know everything. There’s got to be a link somewhere.”

“A link to what, Mickey?”

“A link to the case. Or the sheriff’s wiretap investigation. Something. We have to look at everybody. The sheriffs, Opparizio, the FBI, everybody.”

“Okay, I’ll tell the guys.”

“You think I’m paranoid, don’t you?”

“I just think it’s kind of far-fetched.”

I nodded. Maybe it was.

“Did they let you bring your phone in here?” I asked.

“Yes,” she said.

“Okay, take a picture of me. You might want to show it to the judge when you make your argument for protection.”

“Good idea.”

I heard her getting her phone out of her purse.

“I’m sure Berg will object to it,” she said. “But worth a try.”

“If the judge knows there’s a photo, she’ll want to see it,” I said. “Human curiosity.”

I heard her snap the shot.

“Okay, Mickey,” she said. “Rest up.”

“That’s the plan,” I said.

I heard her step toward the door.

“Jennifer?” I said.

I heard her steps come back to the bed.

“Yes, I’m here,” Jennifer said.

“Look, I can’t really see yet, but I can hear,” I said.

“Okay.”

“And I hear doubt in your voice.”

“No, you’re wrong.”

“Look, it’s a natural thing. To question things. I think you—”

“It’s not that, Mickey.”

“Then, what is it?”

“Okay, look, it’s my father. He’s gotten sick. I’m worried about him.”

“Is he in the hospital? What’s wrong?”

“That’s the thing. We’re not getting straight answers. He’s in a care home up in Seattle and my sister and I are not getting answers.”

“Is your sister there?”

“Yes, she thinks I should go up. If I want to see him before... you know.”

“Then, she’s right, you need to go.”

“But we have the case — the trial. The motions hearing is next week and now this attack.”

I knew that losing her could be devastating to the case, but there was no choice.

“Look,” I said, “you gotta go. You can take your laptop and there’s a lot you can do from up there when you’re not with your father. You can write motions, Cisco can get them to the court clerk.”

“It’s not the same,” she said.

“I know it’s not but it’s what we can do. You need to go.”

“I feel like I’m leaving you all alone.”

“I’ll figure something out. Go up there, see him, and, who knows, maybe he’ll start feeling better and you get back down for trial.”

She didn’t respond at first. I had said my piece and was already thinking of alternative ways to go.

“I’m going to think about it tonight,” Jennifer finally said. “I’ll let you know tomorrow, okay?”

“That’s okay, but I don’t think there is much to think about. It’s family. Your father. You have to go.”

“Thanks, Mickey.”

I nodded.

I heard her steps again as she headed to the door. I tried to relax my throat and ease the pain. Talking felt like swallowing glass.

Then I heard Jennifer tell the investigator waiting outside the room that he could go in.