“You’re referring to RICO as in the Racketeer Influenced and Corrupt Organizations Act?”
“Yes.”
“What was the picture he gave you?”
“He texted it to me. He took it the night he turned her. It was old—like from eight or nine years before. He had busted her but made a deal not to book her if she snitched for him. He took her photo for his snitch file and he still had it.”
“Do you still have that photo?”
“No, I deleted it.”
“When?”
“After I heard that she was murdered.”
I gave that answer a pause for effect.
“Did you use the photo to find her for Marco?”
“Yes, I started looking at locally based websites for escorts and eventually I found her using the name Giselle. The hair was different but it was her.”
“Then what did you do?”
“Contact with escorts on this level is usually buffered. They don’t just give out their home addresses and cell numbers. On Giselle’s page, there was mention of a ‘Pretty Woman Special’ at the Beverly Wilshire. I asked Rico—Marco—to get me into a room there using one of his UC aliases.”
“By ‘UC,’ you mean undercover?”
“Yes, undercover.”
“What was the name, do you remember?”
“Ronald Weldon.”
I knew this could be checked with Hensley and hotel records if I needed to corroborate Lankford’s story later. The case had suddenly changed dimensions with Lankford’s testimony.
“Okay, what happened next?”
“Marco got the room and gave me the key. It was on the eighth floor. I went there, and when I was opening the door, one of the bellmen arrived with a cart to the room across the hall.”
“You mean it looked like the people in that room were checking out?”
“Yes.”
“What did you do next?”
“I went into my room and watched through the peephole. There was a couple in the room opposite mine. The bellman left with their luggage first and then they left. They didn’t pull the door closed all the way. So I went across and into the room.”
“What did you do in there?”
“I looked around first. And I got lucky. In the trash can, there were several envelopes, and it looked like wedding cards had come in them. They were addressed to Daniel and Linda or Mr. and Mrs. Price and things like that. I figured out that his name was Daniel Price. So I used that name and that room number to set up Giselle Dallinger to come that night.”
“Why did you go through such elaborate efforts?”
“Because first of all, I know everything can be traced. Everything. I didn’t want this coming back on me. And second, I worked vice when I was a cop. I know how prostitutes and pimps work it to avoid law enforcement. Whoever the setup person was for Giselle would call me back at the hotel. It was their way of hopefully confirming I wasn’t law enforcement. I could’ve done it from the room Marco got me, but I saw that open door and thought it would be better and completely untraceable to me. And Marco.”
With his answer Lankford walked across the line from plausible deniability to conspiracy to commit. If he had been my client, I would have stopped him by now. But I had my own client to clear. I pressed on.
“Are you saying that you knew what was going to happen to Giselle that night?”
“No, never. I was just taking precautions.”
I studied Lankford, unsure if he was elaborately covering his own culpability in a murder or actually telling the truth.
“So you set up the liaison for that night and then you waited for her in the lobby, correct?”
“Yes.”
“Using your hat as a shield against the cameras?”
“Yes.”
“And then you followed her home to Franklin Avenue.”
“I did.”
The judge interrupted at that moment and addressed the jury.
“Ladies and gentlemen, I know it seems as though we just got started but we are going to take a quick five-minute break. I want you to go to the jury room and stay close by. I want all counsel and the witness to remain in place, please.”
We stood as the jury filed out. I knew what was coming. The judge couldn’t just sit there without warning Lankford of his peril. As soon as the jury room’s door closed, she turned to my witness.
“Mr. Lankford, do you have counsel present?”
“No, I don’t,” Lankford responded calmly.
“Do you want me to pause your testimony here so you can seek the advice of counsel?”
“No, Your Honor. I want to do this. I’ve committed no crime.”
“You are sure?”
The question could be taken two ways. Was Lankford sure he didn’t want a lawyer, or was he sure he had committed no crime.
“I would like to continue to testify.”
The judge stared at Lankford for a long moment as if taking some sort of measure of him. She then turned away and signaled for the courtroom deputy to approach the bench. She whispered to the deputy and then he immediately walked to the side of the witness stand and took a position next to Lankford. He put his hand on his sidearm. It looked as if he was about to make an arrest.
“Mr. Lankford, will you please stand.”
Looking puzzled, Lankford stood. He glanced at the deputy and then at the judge.
“Are you wearing a firearm, Mr. Lankford?” Leggoe asked.
“Uh, yes, I am.”
“I want you to surrender your weapon to Deputy Hernandez. He will secure it until your testimony is completed.”
Lankford didn’t move. It became clear that Leggoe was concerned that he was armed and might attempt to harm himself or others. It was a good move.
“Mr. Lankford,” the judge said sternly. “Please hand your weapon to Deputy Hernandez.”
Hernandez responded by unsnapping his holster with one hand and keying his shoulder mike with the other. I assumed he was broadcasting an emergency code of some sort to others in courthouse security.
Lankford finally raised his hand and reached inside his sport coat. He slowly removed his gun and handed it to Deputy Hernandez.
“Thank you, Mr. Lankford,” the judge said. “You may sit down now.”
“I have a pocket knife, too,” Lankford said. “Is that a problem?”
“No, Mr. Lankford, that is not a problem. Please be seated.”
There was a collective exhale of relief in the courtroom as Lankford sat down and Hernandez took the gun to his desk to lock it in a drawer. Four deputies flooded into the courtroom through the rear door and the holding area entrance. The judge immediately told them to stand down and called for the jury to be returned to the box.
Three minutes later, things seemed to have returned to normal. The jury and witness were in place and the judge nodded at me.
“Mr. Haller, you may proceed.”
I thanked the judge and then tried to pick up at the point where I had been interrupted.
“Investigator Lankford, did you tell Agent Marco to meet you there at the Franklin address?”
“No, I called him and gave him the address. Shortly after that I left. I was done. I went home.”
“And two hours later, Gloria Dayton, the woman using the name Giselle Dallinger, was dead. Isn’t that right?”
Lankford cast his eyes down and nodded his head.
“Yes.”
I once again checked the jury and saw that nothing had changed. They were mesmerized by Lankford’s confession.
“I’ll ask you again, Investigator. Did you know she would die that night?”
“No, I did not. If I had . . .”
“What?”
“Nothing. I don’t know what I would have done.”
“What did you think would happen once you gave Gloria Dayton’s address to Marco?”
Forsythe objected, saying the question asked for speculation, but the judge overruled it and told Lankford he could answer. Like eve
ryone else in the courtroom, Leggoe wanted to hear the answer.
Lankford shook his head.
“I don’t know,” he answered. “Before I gave him the address that night, I asked him again what was going on. I said I didn’t want to get involved if she was going to get hurt. He insisted that he just wanted to talk to her. He admitted that he knew she was back in town because she had called him from a blocked number and told him that she’d gotten a subpoena in some civil case. And he said he needed to find her to talk to her about it.”
I underlined that answer with some silence. Essentially my case was made. But it was hard to end Lankford’s testimony.
“Why did you do this for Agent Marco?”
“Because he had a hold on me. He owned me.”
“How?”
“Ten years ago I worked that double-homicide case in Glendale. On Salem Street. I met him on that and I made a mistake . . .”
Lankford’s voice trembled slightly. I waited. He composed himself and continued.
“He came to me. He said there were people . . . people who would pay for the case to remain unsolved. You know, pay me not to solve it. The truth was, my partner and I probably weren’t going to close it. Not a shred of evidence was left in that place. It was an execution and the hitters had probably come across the border and then gone right back. So I thought, what difference would it make? I needed the money. I had gotten divorced and my wife—my ex-wife—was going to take our son away. She was going to move to Arizona and take him, and I needed money for a good lawyer who would fight it. My boy was only nine. He needed me. So I took the money. Twenty-five thousand. Marco made the deal and I got the money and after that . . .”
He paused there and seemed to go off on some internal flight of thought. I thought the judge might step in again here because, statute of limitations notwithstanding, Lankford had certainly now confessed to a crime. But the judge remained as still as every other person in the courtroom.
“After that, what?” I prompted.
It was a mistake. It brought Lankford back angry.
“What, you want me to draw you a picture? He had me. You understand what I’m saying? He owned me. This little hotel thing wasn’t the first time he used me or told me what to do. There were other times. A lot of other times. He treated me the way he treated his snitches.”
I nodded and looked down at my notes. I knew the case was over. I didn’t need to bring back Marco or put any of the other witnesses on. Moya, Budwin Dell—none of them were needed, none of them mattered. The case ended right here.
Lankford had his head down so no one could see his eyes.
“Investigator Lankford, did you ever ask Agent Marco what happened that night to Gloria after you gave him her address?”
Lankford nodded slowly.
“I asked him point-blank if he killed her, because I didn’t want that on my conscience. He said no. He said he went to the apartment, but when he got there she was already dead. He said he set the fire because he didn’t know if she had anything that would link him to her. But he claimed she was already dead.”
“Did you believe him?”
Lankford paused before answering.
“No,” he finally said. “I didn’t.”
I paused. I wanted to hold the moment for the rest of my life. But then finally I looked up at the judge.
“Your Honor, I have no further questions.”
I passed behind Forsythe on the way to the defense table. He remained in his seat, apparently still deciding whether to mount a cross-examination or simply ask the judge to dismiss the case. I sat down next to Jennifer and she whispered urgently in my ear.
“Holy shit!”
I nodded and leaned toward her to whisper back when I heard Lankford speak from the witness stand.
“My son is older now and he’ll be okay.”
I turned back to see who he was talking to, but he was bent over in the witness stand and obscured by the wood paneling. It looked like he was reaching down to something that had fallen to the floor.
Then, as I watched, Lankford sat up straight and brought his right hand up to his neck. I saw his fingers wrapped around a small pistol—a boot gun. Without hesitation he pressed the muzzle into the soft skin under his chin and pulled the trigger.
The muffled pop from the gun brought a shriek from the jury box. Lankford’s head snapped back and then forward. His body listed slowly to the right and then dropped down behind the front panel of the witness stand out of sight.
Screams of horror and fear came from all over the courtroom, though Jennifer Aronson never made a sound. Like me, she sat there speechless, staring at what now appeared to be the empty witness stand.
The judge started shouting for the courtroom to be cleared, though even her high-pitched and panicked tenor drifted into the background for me. Soon it was as though I couldn’t hear a thing.
I looked over at the jury box and saw my alpha, Mallory Gladwell, standing with her eyes closed, hands pressed against her open mouth. Behind her and to either side of her, other jurors were reacting to the horror of what they had just witnessed. I will always remember the composition of that scene. Twelve people—the gods of guilt—trying to unsee what they all had just seen.
Part 4
THE GODS OF GUILT
MONDAY, DECEMBER 2
Closing Argument
The Gloria Dayton case is long over. Six months later, its ripples on the surface of my life still move with a current all their own. The trial ended, of course, when Lankford pulled his backup gun and took his own life in front of the jury. Judge Leggoe declared a mistrial, and the case went no further than Department 120. Unsurprisingly, the District Attorney’s Office chose to dismiss all charges against Andre La Cosse, citing the “likelihood” of his innocence and other extenuating circumstances. Of course, no one at the DA’s Office or the LAPD admitted they flat out got it wrong from the start.
After his release, Andre was transferred to Cedars-Sinai, where he was treated by the best of the best, underwent more surgeries, and recuperated for six weeks in state-of-the-art medical surroundings. I sent every invoice that came from a doctor or the hospital to Damon Kennedy at the DA’s Office. I never heard back.
When Andre finally left the hospital, he walked with a cane, and he likely always will. Grateful for the outcome of the criminal case, he agreed to allow me to handle a civil claim against the city and county, seeking damages for his wrongful arrest and incarceration and the physical and mental harm to him that resulted. Neither of the defendant governments wanted to go anywhere near a courtroom with the case, and we negotiated a settlement. I started by demanding a million dollars for every stab wound my client suffered but ultimately we settled for $2.4 million on top of all the medical bills.
My cut amounted to the biggest single paycheck in the history of Michael Haller & Associates. I gave bonuses to everyone on the defense team and sent a check for a hundred thousand to Earl Briggs’s mother. I thought it was the least I could do.
That still left me more than enough for a three-week Hawaii vacation with Kendall and to buy a pair of Lincoln Town Cars. One was to use immediately, one to save for the years ahead. They were both low-mileage 2011 models, the last production year of the luxury model’s thirty-year run.
For a while after the trial, I couldn’t catch a break in the public relations department. I was once again vilified in the media and the courthouses, this time as the guy who went after a witness so hard and viciously that he killed himself on the stand. But eventually my reputation was saved by a three-part series that ran in the Times in September under the headline “The Trials of an Innocent Man.” The stories exhaustively detailed the trial, the attack, and the ongoing rehabilitation and recovery of Andre La Cosse. I came out looking pretty good in the stories as the lawyer who believed in his client’s innocence and did what he had to do to win his freedom.
The articles went a long way toward securing the financial settlement with the c
ity and county. They went even further with my daughter. After reading the newspaper series, she tentatively opened communication with me again. We talk and text a couple times a week now and I have driven out to Ventura to watch her ride in equestrian competitions.
Where the articles didn’t help me was with the California bar. An investigator with the professional ethics unit opened a file on me shortly after publication of part two in the Times. That report interviewed the doctors who treated Andre after the stabbing and raised serious questions about whether Andre could have possibly been conscious and of clear mind when he supposedly signed the waiver of appearance I had brought to his bedside at County/USC. The bar investigation is ongoing but I’m not worried. Andre came through with a notarized statement attesting to my legal acumen and recounting how he knowingly signed the document in question.
My other one-time client Hector Arrande Moya was both a winner and loser in the course of the year. Sly Fulgoni Jr., with tutoring from me as well as from his father, won the habeas case, and Moya’s life sentence was vacated by the U.S. District Court. But upon his release from the prison in Victorville, he was immediately taken into custody by immigration officials and deported as an undesirable to Mexico.
Meanwhile, the fate and whereabouts of James Marco officially remain a mystery. He left the courthouse that day in June, slipping out in the confusion and alarm immediately following the Lankford suicide. He has not been seen since, and his face now graces Wanted posters in the same federal building where he once worked. He is the subject of wide-ranging investigations by the FBI and his own DEA. According to unnamed sources quoted in the Times series, the crimes and corruption of the ICE team he headed for over a decade run deep, and a federal grand jury will be hearing evidence well into next year. The unnamed sources said Marco was believed to have sided with one faction in a long-running war within the Sinaloa cartel and had been doing that faction’s bidding in Southern California. It was even suggested that the effort to put Hector Moya in prison for life came on orders from Marco’s bosses in Mexico.
Among the other things the grand jury is probing, according to the Times, is an alleged relationship between Marco and the female attorney who represented Patrick Sewell, the man charged with attacking Andre in the courthouse transportation center.
The Gods of Guilt Page 35