"And we will go down in flames," Haller said.
McPherson didn't respond, but she didn't have to.
"Don't worry," Bosch said. "I'll find her."
The two lawyers looked at him. It wasn't a time for empty rah-rah speeches. He meant it.
"If she's alive," he said, "I'll find her."
"Good," Haller said. "That'll be your first priority."
Bosch took out his key chain and opened the small penknife attached to it. He used it to cut the red seal on the evidence box. He had no idea what would be in the box. The evidence that had been introduced at trial twenty-four years earlier was still in the possession of the DA's Office. This box would contain other evidence that was gathered but not presented at trial.
Bosch put on a set of latex gloves from his pocket and then opened the box. On top was a paper bag that contained the victim's dress. It was a surprise. He had assumed that the dress had been introduced at trial, if only for the sympathetic response it would get from the jurors.
Opening the bag brought a musty smell to the room. He lifted the dress out, holding it up by the shoulders. All three of them were silent. Bosch was holding up a dress that a little girl had been wearing when she was murdered. It was blue with a darker blue bow in the front. A six-inch square had been cut out of the front hem, the location of the semen stain.
"Why is this here?" Bosch asked. "Wouldn't they have presented this at trial?"
Haller said nothing. McPherson leaned forward and looked closely at the dress as she considered a response.
"I think... they didn't show it because of the cutout. Showing the dress would let the defense ask about the cutout. That would lead to the blood-typing. The prosecution chose not to get into it during the presentation of the evidence. They probably relied on crime scene photos that showed the girl in the dress. They left it to the defense to introduce it and they never did."
Bosch folded the dress and put it down on the table. Also in the box was a pair of black patent leather shoes. They seemed very small and sad to him. There was a second paper bag, which contained the victim's underwear and socks. An accompanying lab report stated that the items had been checked for bodily fluids as well as hair and fiber evidence but no such evidence had been found.
At the bottom of the box was a plastic bag containing a silver necklace with a charm on it. He looked at it through the plastic and identified the figure on the charm as Winnie the Pooh. There was also a bag containing a bracelet of aqua-blue beads on an elastic string.
"That's it," he said.
"We should have forensics take a fresh look at it all," McPherson said. "You never know. Technology has advanced quite a bit in twenty-four years."
"I'll get it done," Bosch said.
"By the way," McPherson asked, "where were the shoes found? They're not on the victim's feet in the crime scene photos."
Bosch looked at the property report that was taped to the inside of the box's top.
"According to this they were found underneath the body. They must've come off in the truck, maybe when she was strangled. The killer threw them into the Dumpster first, then dropped in her body."
The images conjured by the items in the box had brought a decidedly somber mood to the prosecution team. Bosch started to carefully return everything to the box. He put the envelope containing the necklace in last.
"How old was your daughter when she left Winnie the Pooh behind?" he asked.
Haller and McPherson looked at each other. Haller deferred.
"Five or six," McPherson said. "Why?"
"Mine, too, I think. But this twelve-year-old had it on her necklace. I wonder why."
"Maybe because of where it came from," Haller said. "Hayley--our daughter--still wears a bracelet I got for her about five years ago."
McPherson looked at him as if challenging the assertion.
"Not all the time," Haller said quickly. "But on occasion. Sometimes when I pick her up. Maybe the necklace came from her real father before he died."
A low chime came from McPherson's computer and she checked her e-mail. She studied the screen for a few moments before speaking.
"This is from John Rivas, who handles afternoon arraignments in Department one hundred. Jessup's now got a criminal defense attorney and John's working on getting Jessup on the docket for a bail hearing. He's coming over on the last bus from City Jail."
"Who's the lawyer?" Haller asked.
"You'll love this. Clever Clive Royce is taking the case pro bono. It's a referral from the GJP."
Bosch knew the name. Royce was a high-profile guy who was a media darling who never missed a chance to stand in front of a camera and say all the things he wasn't allowed to say in court.
"Of course he's taking it pro bono," Haller said. "He'll make it up on the back end. Sound bites and headlines, that's all Clive cares about."
"I've never gone up against him," McPherson said. "I can't wait."
"Is Jessup actually on the docket?"
"Not yet. But Royce is talking to the clerk. Rivas wants to know if we want him to handle it. He'll oppose bail."
"No, we'll take it," Haller said. "Let's go."
McPherson closed her computer at the same time Bosch put the top back on the evidence box.
"You want to come?" Haller asked him. "Get a look at the enemy?"
"I just spent seven hours with him, remember?"
"I don't think he was talking about Jessup," McPherson said.
Bosch nodded.
"No, I'll pass," he said. "I'm going to take this stuff over to SID and get to work on tracking down our witness. I'll let you know when I find her."
Seven
Tuesday, February 16, 5:30 P.M.
Department 100 was the largest courtroom in the CCB and reserved for morning and evening arraignment court, the twin intake points of the local justice system. All those charged with crimes had to be brought before a judge within twenty-four hours, and in the CCB this required a large courtroom with a large gallery section where the families and friends of the accused could sit. The courtroom was used for first appearances after arrest, when the loved ones were still naive about the lengthy, devastating and difficult journey the defendant was embarking upon. At arraignment, it was not unusual to have mom, dad, wife, sister-in-law, aunt, uncle and even a neighbor or two in the courtroom in a show of support for the defendant and outrage at his arrest. In another eighteen months, when the case would grind to a finale at sentencing, the defendant would be lucky to have even dear old mom still in attendance.
The other side of the gate was usually just as crowded, with lawyers of all stripes. Grizzled veterans, bored public defenders, slick cartel reps, wary prosecutors and media hounds all mingled in the well or stood against the glass partition surrounding the prisoner pen and whispered to their clients.
Presiding over this anthill was Judge Malcolm Firestone, who sat with his head down and his sharp shoulders jutting up and closer to his ears with each passing year. His black robe gave them the appearance of folded wings and the overall image was one of Firestone as a vulture waiting impatiently to dine on the bloody detritus of the justice system.
Firestone handled the evening arraignment docket, which started at three P.M. and went as far into the night as the list of detainees required. Consequently, he was a jurist who liked to keep things moving. You had to act fast in one hundred or risk being run over and left behind. In here, justice was an assembly line with a conveyor belt that never stopped turning. Firestone wanted to get home. The lawyers wanted to get home. Everybody wanted to get home.
I entered the courtroom with Maggie and immediately saw the cameras being set up in a six-foot corral to the left side, across the courtroom from the glass pen that housed defendants brought in six at a time. Without the glare of spotlights this time, I saw my friend Sticks setting the legs of the tool that provided his nickname, his tripod. He saw me and gave me a nod and I returned it.
Maggie tapped me on the arm
and pointed toward a man seated at the prosecution table with three other lawyers.
"That's Rivas on the end."
"Okay. You go talk to him while I check in with the clerk."
"You don't have to check in, Haller. You're a prosecutor, remember?"
"Oh, cool. I forgot."
We headed over to the prosecution table and Maggie introduced me to Rivas. The prosecutor was a baby lawyer, probably no more than a few years out of a top-ranked law school. My guess was that he was biding his time, playing office politics and waiting to make a move up the ladder and out of the hellhole of arraignment court. It didn't help that I had come from across the aisle to grab the golden ring of the office's current caseload. By his body language I registered his wariness. I was at the wrong table. I was the fox in the henhouse. And I knew that before the hearing was over, I was going to confirm his suspicions.
After the perfunctory handshake, I looked around for Clive Royce and found him seated against the railing, conferring with a young woman who was probably his associate. They were leaning toward each other, looking into an open folder with a thick sheaf of documents in it. I approached with my hand out.
"Clive 'The Barrister' Royce, how's it hanging, old chap?"
He looked up and a smile immediately creased his well-tanned face. Like a perfect gentleman, he stood up before accepting my hand.
"Mickey, how are you? I'm sorry it looks like we're going to be opposing counsel on this one."
I knew he was sorry but not too sorry. Royce had built his career on picking winners. He would not risk going pro bono and stepping into a heavy media case if he didn't think it would amount to free advertising and another victory. He was in it to win it and behind the smile was a set of sharp teeth.
"Me, too. And I am sure you will make me regret the day I crossed the aisle."
"Well, I guess we're both fulfilling our public duty, yes? You helping out the district attorney and me taking on Jessup on the cuff."
Royce still carried an English accent even though he had lived more than half his fifty years in the United States. It gave him an aura of culture and distinction that belied his practice of defending people accused of heinous crimes. He wore a three-piece suit with a barely discernible chalk line in the gabardine. His bald pate was well tanned and smooth, his beard dyed black and groomed to the very last hair.
"That's one way of looking at it," I said.
"Oh, where are my manners? Mickey, this is my associate Denise Graydon. She'll be assisting me in the defense of Mr. Jessup."
Graydon stood up and shook my hand firmly.
"Nice to meet you," I said.
I looked around to see if Maggie was standing nearby and could be introduced but she was huddled with Rivas at the prosecution table.
"Well," I said to Royce. "Did you get your client on the docket?"
"I did indeed. He'll be first in the group after this one. I've already gone back and visited and we'll be ready to make a motion for bail. I was wondering, though, since we have a few minutes, could we step out into the corridor for a word?"
"Sure, Clive. Let's do it now."
Royce told his associate to wait in the courtroom and retrieve us when the next group of defendants was brought into the glass cage. I followed Royce through the gate and down the aisle between the crowded rows of the gallery. We went through the mantrap and into the hallway.
"You want to get a cup of tea?" Royce asked.
"I don't think there's time. What's up, Clive?"
Royce folded his arms and got serious.
"I must tell you, Mick, that I am not out to embarrass you. You are a friend and colleague in the defense bar. But you have gotten yourself into a no-win situation here, yes? What are we going to do about it?"
I smiled and glanced up and down the crowded hallway. Nobody was paying attention to us.
"Are you saying that your client wants to plead this out?"
"On the contrary. There will be no plea negotiation on this matter. The district attorney has made the wrong choice and it's very clear what maneuver he is undertaking here and how he is using you as a pawn in the process. I must put you on notice that if you insist on taking Jason Jessup to trial, then you are going to embarrass yourself. As a professional courtesy, I just thought I needed to tell you this."
Before I could answer, Graydon came out of the courtroom and headed quickly toward us.
"Somebody in the first group is not ready, so Jessup's been moved up and was just brought out."
"We'll be in straightaway," Royce said.
She hesitated and then realized her boss wanted her to go back into the courtroom. She went back through the doors and Royce turned his attention back to me. I spoke before he could.
"I appreciate your courtesy and concern, Clive. But if your client wants a trial, he'll get a trial. We'll be ready and we'll see who gets embarrassed and who goes back to prison."
"Brilliant, then. I look forward to the contest."
I followed him back inside. Court was in session and on my way down the aisle I saw Lorna Taylor, my office manager and second ex-wife, sitting at the end of one of the crowded rows. I leaned over to whisper.
"Hey, what are you doing here?"
"I had to come see the big moment."
"How did you even know? I just found out fifteen minutes ago."
"I guess so did KNX. I was already down here to look at office space and heard it on the radio that Jessup was going to appear in court. So I came."
"Well, thanks for being here, Lorna. How is the search going? I really need to get out of this building. Soon."
"I have three more showings after this. That'll be enough. I'll let you know my final choices tomorrow, okay?"
"Yeah, that's--"
I heard Jessup's name called by the clerk.
"Look, I gotta get in there. We'll talk later."
"Go get 'em, Mickey!"
I found an empty seat waiting for me next to Maggie at the prosecution table. Rivas had moved to the row of seats against the gate. Royce had moved to the glass cage, where he was whispering to his client. Jessup was wearing an orange jumpsuit--the jail uniform--and looked calm and subdued. He was nodding to everything Royce whispered in his ear. He somehow seemed younger than I had thought he would. I guess I expected all of those years in prison to have taken their toll. I knew he was forty-eight but he looked no older than forty. He didn't even have a jailhouse pallor. His skin was pale but it looked healthy, especially next to the overtanned Royce.
"Where did you go?" Maggie whispered to me. "I thought I was going to have to handle this myself."
"I was just outside conferring with defense counsel. Do you have the charges handy? In case I have to read them into the record."
"You won't have to enter the charges. All you have to do is stand up and say that you believe Jessup is a flight risk and a danger to the community. He--"
"But I don't believe he's a flight risk. His lawyer just told me they're ready to go and that they're not interested in a disposition. He wants the money and the only way he'll get it is to stick around and go to trial--and win."
"So?"
She seemed astonished and looked down at the files stacked in front of her.
"Mags, your philosophy is to argue everything and give no quarter. I don't think that's going to work here. I have a strategy and--"
She turned and leaned in closer to me.
"Then I'll just leave you and your strategy and your bald buddy from the defense bar to it."
She pushed back her chair and got up, grabbing her briefcase from the floor.
"Maggie..."
She charged through the gate and headed toward the rear door of the courtroom. I watched her go, knowing that while I didn't like the result, I had needed to set the lines of our prosecutorial relationship.
Jessup's name was called and Royce identified himself for the record. I then stood and said the words I never expected I would say.
"Michael
Haller for the People."
Even Judge Firestone looked up from his perch, peering at me over a pair of reading glasses. Probably for the first time in weeks something out of the ordinary had occurred in his courtroom. A dyed-in-the-wool defense attorney had stood for the People.
"Well, gentlemen, this is an arraignment court and I have a note here saying you want to talk about bail."
Jessup was charged twenty-four years ago with murder and abduction. When the supreme court reversed his conviction it did not throw out the charges. That had been left to the DA's Office. So he still stood accused of the crimes and his not-guilty plea of twenty-four years ago remained in place. The case now had to be assigned to a courtroom and a judge for trial. A motion to discuss bail would usually be delayed until that point, except that Jessup, through Royce, was pushing the issue forward by coming to Firestone.
"Your Honor," Royce said, "my client was already arraigned twenty-four years ago. What we would like to do today is discuss a motion for bail and to move this case along to trial. Mr. Jessup has waited a long time for his freedom and for justice. He has no intention of waiving his right to a speedy trial."
I knew it was the move Royce would make, because it was the move I would have made. Every person accused of a crime is guaranteed a speedy trial. Most often trials are delayed at the defense's request or acquiescence as both sides want time to prepare. As a pressure tactic, Royce was not going to suspend the speedy-trial statute. With a case and evidence twenty-four years old, not to mention a primary witness whose whereabouts were at the moment unknown, it was not only prudent but a no-brainer to put the prosecution on the clock. When the supreme court reversed the conviction, that clock started ticking. The People had sixty days from that point to bring Jessup to trial. Twelve of them had already gone by.
"I can move the case to the clerk for assignment," Firestone said. "And I would prefer that the assigned judge handle the question of bail."
Royce composed his thoughts for a moment before responding. In doing so he turned his body slightly so the cameras would have a better angle on him.
"Your Honor, my client has been falsely incarcerated for twenty-four years. And those aren't just my words, that's the opinion of the state supreme court. Now they have pulled him out of prison and brought him down here so he can face trial once again. This is all part of an ongoing scheme that has nothing to do with justice, and everything to do with money and politics. It's about avoiding responsibility for corruptly taking a man's freedom. To put this over until another hearing on another day would continue the travesty of justice that has beset Jason Jessup for more than two decades."
The Reversal Page 5