The Law of Innocence

by Michael Connelly

  “Officer Milton, do you believe those videos were an accurate accounting of your actions during the traffic stop?” I asked.

  “Yes, it’s all there on tape,” Milton said.

  “You see no indication that the tapes have been altered or edited in any way?”

  “No, it’s all there.”

  I asked the judge to accept the videos as defense exhibits B and C and Warfield complied.

  I moved on, once again leaving the prosecutor and judge puzzled by the record I was building.

  “Officer Milton, at what point did you decide to initiate a traffic stop on my car?”

  “When you made the turn, I noticed there was no license plate on the vehicle. It’s a common capering move, so I followed and initiated the traffic stop when we were in the Second Street tunnel.”

  “‘Capering,’ Officer Milton?”

  “Sometimes when people are engaged in committing crimes, they take the plates off their car so witnesses can’t get the plate number.”

  “I see. But it appeared from the video we just watched that the car in question still had a front plate, did it not?”

  “It did.”

  “Doesn’t that contradict your capering theory?”

  “Not really. Getaway cars are usually seen driving away. It’s the rear plate that would be important to remove.”

  “Okay. Did you see me walk down the street from the Redwood and turn right onto Broadway?”

  “Yes, I did.”

  “Was I doing anything suspicious?”

  “Not that I recall.”

  “Did you think I was drunk?”

  “No.”

  “And you saw me walk into the parking lot?”

  “I did.”

  “Was that suspicious to you?”

  “Not really. You were dressed in a suit and I thought you probably had parked a car in the lot.”

  “Were you aware that the Redwood is a bar frequented by defense lawyers?”

  “I was not.”

  “Who was it who told you to pull me over after I drove out of the lot?”

  “Uh, no one. I saw the missing plate when you made the turn from Broadway onto Second, and I left my position and initiated the stop.”

  “By that, you mean you followed me into the tunnel and then turned your lights on, yes?”

  “Yes.”

  “Did you have advance knowledge that I would be leaving that lot without a rear plate on my car?”

  “No.”

  “You weren’t there in that spot specifically to pull me over?”

  “No, I was not.”

  Berg stood and objected, saying I was badgering Milton by asking him the same question in different ways. The judge agreed and told me to move on.

  I looked down at the lectern at the notes I had written in red ink.

  “No further questions, Your Honor,” I said.

  The judge looked slightly confused by my examination and its abrupt end.

  “Are you sure, Mr. Haller?”

  “Yes, Your Honor.”

  “Very well. Does the state have recross?”

  Berg also seemed confused by my questioning of Milton. Thinking I had done no damage, she told the judge she had no further questions. The judge shifted her focus back to me.

  “Do you have another witness, Mr. Haller?”

  “No, Your Honor.”

  “Very well. Arguments?”

  “Judge, my argument is submitted.”

  “Nothing further? You don’t want to at least connect the dots for us after your examination of the witness?”

  “Submitted, Your Honor.”

  “Does the state wish to argue?”

  Berg stood at her table and raised her hands as if to ask what there was to argue, then said she would go with her written response to my motion.

  “Then the court is prepared to rule,” Warfield said. “The motion is denied and this court is in recess.”

  The judge had spoken matter-of-factly. And I could hear whispers and sense the letdown of those in the courtroom. It was as though there was a collective What? from those in the gallery.

  But I was pleased. I didn’t want to win the motion. I wanted to cut down the prosecution’s tree at trial and win the case. And I had just made the first swing of the ax.

  9

  We came into the three o’clock meeting with good spirits, despite the surroundings. Not only had we accomplished what we wanted to get done and on the record in the court hearing that morning, but both Jennifer and Cisco said they had good news to share. I told Jennifer to go first.

  “Okay, you remember Andre La Cosse?” she asked.

  “Of course I do,” I said. “My finest hour.”

  It was true. The State of California versus Andre La Cosse might as well be etched on my tombstone at the end of my days. It was the case I was proudest of. An innocent man with the entire weight of the justice system against him charged with murder, and I walked him. And it wasn’t just an NG. It was the rarest of all birds in the justice system. It was the Big I. My work in trial had proved him innocent. So much so that the state paid damages for their malfeasance in charging him in the first place.

  “What about him?” I asked.

  “Well, he saw something about your case online and he wants to help,” Jennifer said.

  “Help how?”

  “Mickey, don’t you get it? You got him a seven-figure settlement for wrongful prosecution. He wants to return the favor. He called up Lorna and said he could go up to two hundred on bail.”

  I was a bit stunned. Andre had barely survived the case while being held in this same place—Twin Towers—while we were in trial, and I had negotiated a settlement for him in compensation. I had taken a third, but that was seven years ago and it was long gone. He had apparently done better with his money and was now willing to chip off some of what he had in order to spring me.

  “He knows he doesn’t get it back, right?” I said. “Two hundred out the window. That’s a big chunk of the money I got him.”

  “He knows,” Jennifer said. “And he hasn’t just been sitting on that money. He invested it. Lorna said he’s into the whole crypto-currency thing and he says the settlement was only seed money. It has grown. A lot. He’s offering the two hundred, no strings attached. I want to go in and set up a bail hearing. We get Warfield to knock it down to two and a half or three million—where it should be—and you walk out of here.”

  I nodded. Andre’s money could go for a 10 percent bond against the set bail. But there was a problem.

  “That’s very generous of Andre, but I don’t think that’ll get it done,” I said. “Berg’s not going to roll over and play dead on a sixty percent reduction on bail. I don’t think Warfield will either. If Andre really wants to kick in, maybe we talk about using his money for expert witnesses, exhibits, and everybody on staff getting paid for the overtime they’re putting in.”

  “No, boss,” Cisco said.

  “We thought about that,” Jennifer said. “And there’s somebody else who wants to help. Another donor.”

  “Who?” I said.

  “Harry Bosch,” she said.

  “No way,” I said. “He’s a retired cop, for god’s sake. He can’t—”

  “Mickey, you got him a million-dollar settlement from the city last year and didn’t even take a cut. He wants—”

  “I didn’t take a cut, because he might need that money. He’s going to max out his insurance and then he’ll need it. Besides, I set up a trust and he put it in there.”

  “Look, Mickey, he can tap it or borrow against it,” Jennifer insisted. “The point is, you have to get out of here. Not only is it dangerous in this place, but you’re losing weight, you don’t look good, and your health is at risk. Remember what Legal Siegel used to say? ‘Look like a winner and you’ll become a winner’? You don’t look like a winner, Mickey. You can tailor your suits but you still look pale and sick. You need to get out of here and get yourself in shape
for trial.”

  “He actually said, ‘Act like a winner and you’ll be a winner.’”

  “Doesn’t matter. Same thing. This is your chance. These people came to us. We didn’t go to them. In fact, Andre said he came because he saw you on TV from that last hearing and it reminded him of himself when he was in here.”

  I nodded. I knew she was right. But I hated taking the money, especially from Bosch, my half brother, who I knew needed it for other things.

  “Not only that, but you need to get home for Christmas and see your daughter,” Jennifer said. “This no-visitation thing is hurting her as much as it must hurt you.”

  She nailed me with her final argument. I missed my daughter, missed her voice.

  “Okay, I hear you,” I said.

  “Good,” Jennifer said.

  “I think we might be able to knock the bail down to three million,” I said. “But that’s probably it.”

  “We can cover three million,” Jennifer said.

  “Okay, set it up,” I said. “Don’t give any hint that we can go up to three million. I want Berg to think we’re coming in hat in hand. She’ll think dropping bail a couple million will still probably keep me in stir. We ask for one million and she compromises at two or three.”

  “Right,” Jennifer said.

  “And one last thing,” I said. “Are you sure Harry and Andre came in voluntarily with this? It wasn’t the other way around?”

  Jennifer shrugged and looked at Cisco.

  “Scout’s honor, boss,” he said. “That’s straight up from Lorna.”

  I looked for any sign of deception and didn’t see any. But I could tell something was bothering Jennifer.

  “Jennifer, what?” I asked.

  “On bail, what if the judge makes a monitor part of the deal?” she asked. “An ankle bracelet. Can you live with that?”

  I thought about it for a moment. It would be the ultimate invasion, having the state monitoring my every move while I was building my defense. But I recalled what Jennifer had said about spending time with my daughter.

  “Don’t offer it,” I finally said. “But if it comes up as part of the deal, I’ll accept it.”

  “Good,” Jennifer said. “I’ll file the motion as soon as we get out of here. If we’re lucky, we’ll get before the judge tomorrow and you’ll be home for the weekend.”

  “Sounds like a plan,” I said.

  “There’s one other thing from Harry Bosch,” Jennifer said.

  “What’s that?”

  “He said he also wants to help with the defense, if we want him.”

  This was cause for hesitation. There had always been a low-level friction between Cisco and Bosch that stemmed from their origins as investigators. Bosch was retired now, but from law enforcement. Cisco was from the defense side from the start. Bringing Bosch on could be extremely useful because of his experience and connections. It could also throw off the chemistry of my team. I didn’t have to ponder the offer long before Cisco ended my uncertainty.

  “We need him,” Cisco said.

  “You sure?” I asked.

  “Bring him on,” he said.

  I knew what he was doing. He was casting all friction or animosity aside for me. If it had been any other case, he would have said we didn’t need Bosch, and that was probably true. But with my life and freedom on the line, Cisco wanted any possible advantage we could get.

  I nodded my thanks to him and looked at Jennifer.

  “Get me out of here first,” I said. “Then we meet with Bosch. Make sure he gets everything from the discovery file, especially all the crime scene photos. He’s good with that stuff.”

  “I’m on it,” she said. “Is he on your visitors list here?”

  “No, but I can add him,” I said. “He may have already tried to see me.”

  I shifted my focus back to Cisco.

  “Okay, Big Man, what’ve you got?” I asked.

  “I got the full autopsy from a guy at the coroner’s,” he said. “You’re going to like the tox report.”

  “Tell me.”

  “Sam Scales had flunitrazepam in his blood. That’s what’s on the report. You look that up on Google and you get Rohypnol.”

  “The date-rape drug,” Jennifer said.

  “Okay,” I said. “How much was in his blood?”

  “Enough to knock him out,” Cisco said. “He wasn’t conscious when they shot him.”

  I liked that Cisco had said they. It told me he was all in on the theory that I had been framed and most likely by more than one person.

  “So what does this tell us in terms of when he got dosed?” I asked.

  “Not sure yet,” Cisco said.

  “Jennifer, we’re going to need an expert for trial,” I said. “A good one. Can you work on that?”

  “On it,” she said.

  I thought about things for a few moments before continuing.

  “I’m not sure it really helps us,” I said. “The state’s position will be that I dosed him, then abducted him and took him to the house. We still need to get into Sam Scales and where he was and what he was doing.”

  “I’m on it,” Cisco said.

  “Good,” I said. “Let’s talk about the garage next. Did Lorna get Wesley out to look at it?”

  Wesley Brower was the installer I’d used to replace the emergency release on my garage door. This happened seven months earlier during fire season when a rolling brownout left my house without power. I could not open the garage door and was due in court on a sentencing. I had long misplaced the key to the emergency release. I called out Brower to get the garage open and he found that the keyed handle of the release pull was seized with rust. He still managed to get the door open, and I got to court—late. The next day Brower came back and installed a new emergency release system.

  If my defense was going to claim that I was framed, then it would be my job at trial to explain to the jury exactly how that frame came together. And that would start with how the true killer or killers got into my garage to put Sam Scales in the trunk of my car and then shoot him. I had told my team to have Wesley Brower check the emergency release to see if it had been recently engaged or tampered with.

  Jennifer answered my question by raising a hand and wagging it side to side to say she had good and bad news.

  “Lorna got Brower out to the garage and he checked the emergency release,” she said. “He determined that it had been pulled, but he can’t say when. You put the new one in back in July, so all he can say is that it has been pulled since then.”

  “How does he know?” I asked.

  “Whoever pulled it put it back together after they got the door open. But they didn’t do it the way he left it back in July. So he knows it was pulled—he just won’t be able to testify when. It’s a wash, Mickey.”

  “Damn.”

  “I know, but it was a long shot.”

  The good feelings that we had started the meeting with were dissipating.

  “Okay, where are we on the suspects list?” I asked.

  “Lorna is still working on it,” Jennifer said. “You’ve had a ton of cases in the past ten years. There’s still a lot to go through. I told her I’d work with her this weekend, and with any luck you’ll be out of this place and able to be there too.”

  I nodded.

  “Speaking of which, you should probably go if you’re going to file something today,” I said.

  “I was thinking the same thing,” Jennifer said. “Anything else?”

  I leaned across the table to talk in a low voice to Jennifer—in case the overhead camera had grown ears.

  “I’m going to call you when I can get to a phone in the module,” I said. “I want to talk about Baja and I want you to record it. Can you do that?”

  “Not a problem. I’ve got an app.”

  “Good. Then we’ll talk later.”

  10

  It was almost an hour before they moved me back to the module. I found Bishop at one of the
tables playing Mexican dominoes with a custody named Filbin. He gave me his customary greeting.

  “Counselor,” he said.

  “Bishop, I thought you had court today,” I said.

  “Thought I did too until my lawyer put it over. Motherfucker mus’ think I’m stayin’ at the Ritz over here.”

  I sat down, put my documents on the table, and looked around. A lot of guys were out of their cells and moving around the dayroom. The module had two phones mounted on the wall below the mirrored windows of the hack tower. You could either make a collect call on them or use a phone card purchased from the jail canteen. At the moment, both phones were being used and each one had a line of three men waiting. The calls cut off after fifteen minutes. That meant if I got in line now I would get a phone in roughly an hour.

  I didn’t see Quesada on my survey of the dayroom. Then I saw that the door to his cell was closed. Every man in the module was on keep-away status, but being locked up in a cell in a keep-away module was reserved for those inmates who were either in imminent danger or highly valuable to a prosecution.

  “Quesada’s on lockdown?” I said.

  “Happened this morning,” Bishop said.

  “Snitch,” Filbin said.

  I almost smiled. Calling someone in the keep-away module a snitch was a bit like the pot calling the kettle black. The most common reason for segregating people in the module in the first place was that they were informants. For all I knew, Filbin was one. I didn’t make it a practice of asking fellow inmates what they were being held for or why they were on keep-away status. I had no idea why Bishop was in the module and would never ask him. Sticking your nose in other people’s business could have consequences in a place like Twin Towers.

  I watched them play until Bishop won the game and Filbin got up and walked off toward the stairs leading to the second tier of cells.

  “You want to play, Counselor?” Bishop asked. “A dime a point?”

  “No, thanks,” I said. “I don’t gamble.”

  “Now, that’s some bullshit right there. You gambling with your own life right now bein’ in here with us criminals.”

  “Speaking of that, I might be getting out soon.”