“I’ve got the gun!”
Bosch pointed a finger at my chest.
“Stay right here.”
I watched Bosch and Armstead trot over and join a few of the others as they studied the found weapon under a flashlight beam. Bosch didn’t touch the weapon but bent down into the light to examine it closely.
The William Tell Overture started to play behind me. I turned around and saw my phone lying on the gravel, its tiny square screen glowing like a beacon. I went over and picked it up. It was Cisco and I took the call.
“Cisco, I gotta call you back.”
“Make it quick. I’ve got some good shit for you. You’re going to want to know this.”
I closed the phone and watched as Bosch finished his study of the weapon and then stepped over to McSweeney. He leaned close to him and whispered something into his ear. He didn’t wait for a response. He just turned and walked back toward me. I could tell even in the dim moonlight that he was excited. Armstead was following behind him.
“The gun’s a Beretta Bobcat, like we were looking for on Vincent,” he said. “If the ballistics match, then we’ve got that guy locked in a box. I’ll make sure you get a commendation from City Hall.”
“Good. I’ll frame it.”
“Put this together for me, Haller, and you can start with him being the one who killed Vincent. Why did he want to kill you, too?”
“I don’t know.”
“The bribe,” Armstead asked. “Is he the one who got the money?”
“Same answer I gave you five minutes ago. I don’t know. But it makes sense, doesn’t it?”
“How did he know your friend’s name on the phone?”
“I don’t know that either.”
“Then, what good are you?” Bosch asked.
It was a good question and the immediate answer didn’t sit well with me.
“Look, Detective, I—”
“Don’t bother, man. Why don’t you just get in your car and get the fuck out of here? We’ll take it from here.”
He turned and started walking away and Armstead followed. I hesitated and then called out to Bosch. I waved him back. He said something to the FBI agent and came back to me alone.
“No bullshit,” he said impatiently. “I don’t have the time.”
“Okay, this is the thing,” I said. “I think he was going to make it look like I jumped.”
Bosch considered this and then shook his head.
“Suicide? Who would believe that? You’ve got the case of the decade, man. You’re hot. You’re on TV. And you’ve got a kid to worry about. Suicide wouldn’t sell.”
I nodded.
“Yes, it would.”
He looked at me and said nothing, waiting for me to explain.
“I’m a recovering addict, Bosch. You know anything about that?”
“Why don’t you tell me?”
“The story would go that I couldn’t take the pressure of the big case and all the attention, and I either had or was about to relapse. So I jumped instead of going back to that. It’s not an uncommon thing, Bosch. They call it the fast out. And it makes me think that…”
“What?”
I pointed across the clearing toward juror number seven.
“That he and whoever he was doing this for knew a lot about me. They did a deep background. They came up with my addiction and rehab and Lanie’s name. Then they came up with a solid plan for getting rid of me because they couldn’t just shoot down another lawyer without bringing down massive scrutiny on what it is they’ve got going. If I went down as a suicide, there’d be a lot less pressure.”
“Yeah, but why did they need to get rid of you?”
“I guess they think I know too much.”
“Do you?”
Before I could answer, McSweeney started yelling from the other side of the clearing.
“Hey! Over there with the lawyer. I want to make a deal. I can give you some big people, man! I want to make a deal!”
Bosch waited to see if there was more but that was it.
“My tip?” I said. “Go over there and strike while the iron’s hot. Before he remembers he’s entitled to a lawyer.”
Bosch nodded.
“Thanks, Coach,” he said. “But I think I know what I’m doing.”
He started to head across the clearing.
“Hey, Bosch, wait,” I called. “You owe me something before you go over there.”
Bosch stopped and signaled to Armstead to go to McSweeney. He then came back to me.
“What do I owe you?”
“One answer. Tonight I called you and told you I was in for the night. You were supposed to cut the surveillance down to one car. But this is the whole enchilada up here. What changed your mind?”
“You haven’t heard, have you?”
“Heard what?”
“You get to sleep late tomorrow, Counselor. There’s no trial anymore.”
“Why not?”
“Because your client’s dead. Somebody—probably our friend over there who wants to make a deal—took Elliot and his girlfriend out tonight when they came home from dinner. His electric gate wouldn’t open and when he got out to push it open, somebody came up and put a bullet in the back of his head. Then he hit the woman in the car.”
I took a half step back in shock. I knew the gate Bosch was talking about. I had been to Elliot’s mansion in Beverly Hills just the other night. And as far as the girlfriend went, I also thought I knew who that would be. I’d had Nina Albrecht figured for that position ever since Elliot told me he’d had help on the day of the murders in Malibu.
Bosch didn’t let the stunned look on my face keep him from continuing.
“I got tipped from a friend in the medical examiner’s office and figured that somebody might be out there cleaning the slate tonight. I figured I ought to call the team back and see what happens at your place. Lucky for you I did.”
I stared right through Bosch when I answered.
“Yeah,” I said. “Lucky for me.”
Fifty-three
There was no longer a trial but I went to court on Tuesday morning to see the case through to its official end. I took my place next to the empty seat Walter Elliot had occupied for the past two weeks. The news photographers who had been allowed access to the courtroom seemed to like that empty chair. They took a lot of photos of it.
Jeffrey Golantz sat across the aisle. He was the luckiest prosecutor on earth. He had left court one day, thinking he was facing a career-hobbling loss, and came back the next day with his perfect record intact. His upward trajectory in the DA’s office and city politics was safe for now. He had nothing to say to me as we sat and waited for the judge.
But there was a lot of talk in the gallery. People were buzzing with news of the murders of Walter Elliot and Nina Albrecht. No one made mention of the attempt on my life and the events at the Fryman Canyon overlook. For the moment, that was all secret. Once McSweeney told Bosch and Armstead that he wanted to deal, the investigators had asked me to keep quiet so they could move slowly and carefully with their cooperating suspect. I was happy to cooperate with that myself. To a point.
Judge Stanton took the bench promptly at nine. His eyes were puffy and he looked like he’d had very little sleep. I wondered if he knew as many details of what had transpired the night before as I did.
The jury was brought in and I studied their faces. If any of them knew what had happened, they weren’t showing it. I noticed several of them check out the empty seat beside me as they took their own.
“Ladies and gentlemen, good morning,” the judge said. “At this time I am going to discharge you from service in this trial. As I am sure you can see, Mr. Elliot is not in his seat at the defense table. This is because the defendant in this trial was the victim of a homicide last night.”
Half of the jurors’ mouths dropped open in unison. The others expressed their surprise with their eyes. A low murmur of excited voices went through the courtroom
and then a slow and deliberate clapping began from behind the prosecution table. I turned to see Mitzi Elliot’s mother applauding the news of Elliot’s demise.
The judge brought his gavel down harshly just as Golantz jumped from his seat and rushed to her, grabbing her hands gently and stopping her from continuing. I saw tears rolling down her cheeks.
“There will be no demonstrations from the gallery,” the judge said harshly. “I don’t care who you are or what connection you might have to the case, everyone in here will show respect to the court or I will have you removed.”
Golantz returned to his seat but the tears continued to flow from the mother of one of the victims.
“I know that to all of you, this is rather shocking news,” Stanton told the jurors. “Be assured that the authorities are investigating the matter thoroughly and hopefully will soon bring the individual or individuals responsible to justice. I am sure you will learn all about it when you read the paper or watch the news, as you are now free to do. As far as today goes, I want to thank you for your service. I know you all were very attentive to the presentation of the prosecution and defense cases and I hope your time here was a positive experience. You are free now to go back to the deliberation room to gather your things and go home. You are excused.”
We stood one last time for the jury and I watched them file through the doorway to the deliberation room. After they were gone, the judge thanked Golantz and me for our professional demeanor during trial, thanked his staff, and quickly adjourned court. I hadn’t bothered to unpack any files from my bag, so I stood motionless for the longest time after the judge left the courtroom. My reverie wasn’t broken until Golantz approached me with his hand out. Without thinking I reached out and shook it.
“No hard feelings on anything, Mickey. You’re a damn good lawyer.”
Was, I thought.
“Yeah,” I said. “No hard feelings.”
“You going to hang around and talk to jurors, see which way they were leaning?” he asked.
I shook my head.
“No, I’m not interested.”
“Me neither. Take care of yourself.”
He clapped me on the shoulder and pushed out through the gate. I was sure there would be a throng of media out in the hall waiting and he’d tell them that in some strange way he felt that justice had been served. Live by the gun, die by the gun. Or words to that effect.
I’d leave the media for him. Instead, I gave him a good lead and then followed him out. The reporters were already surrounding him and I was able to hug the wall and escape notice. All except for Jack McEvoy from the Times. He spotted me and started trailing. He caught me as I got to the stairwell entrance.
“Hey, Mick!”
I glanced at him but didn’t stop walking. I knew from experience not to. If one member of the media downed you, the rest of the pride would catch up and pile on. I didn’t want to be devoured. I hit the stairwell door and started down.
“No comment.”
He stayed with me, stride for stride.
“I’m not writing about the trial. I’m covering the new murders. I thought maybe you and I could have the same deal again. You know, trade informa—”
“No deal, Jack. And no comment. Catch you later.”
I put my hand out and stopped him on the first landing. I left him there, went down two more landings, and then went out into the hallway. I walked down to Judge Holder’s courtroom and entered.
Michaela Gill was in the clerk’s pod and I asked if I could see the judge for a few minutes.
“But I don’t have you down for an appointment,” she said.
“I know that, Michaela, but I think the judge will want to see me. Is she back there? Can you tell her I only want ten minutes? Tell her it’s about the Vincent files.”
The clerk picked up the phone, punched a button, and gave the judge my request. Then she hung up and told me I could go right back to her chambers.
“Thank you.”
The judge was behind her desk with her half-glasses on, a pen poised in her hand as if I had interrupted her in the middle of signing an order.
“Well, Mr. Haller,” she said. “It’s certainly been an eventful day. Have a seat.”
I sat in the familiar chair in front of her.
“Thank you for seeing me, Judge.”
“What can I do for you?”
She asked the question without looking at me. She started scribbling signatures on a series of documents.
“I just wanted you to know I will be resigning as counsel on the rest of the Vincent cases.”
She put the pen down and looked over her glasses at me.
“What?”
“I’m resigning. I came back too soon or probably should never have come back at all. But I’m finished.”
“That’s absurd. Your defense of Mr. Elliot has been the talk of this courthouse. I watched parts of it on television. You clearly were schooling Mr. Golantz and I don’t think there were many observers who would have bet against an acquittal.”
I waved the compliments away.
“Anyway, Judge, it doesn’t matter. It’s not really why I’m here.”
She took her glasses off and put them down on the desk. She looked hesitant but then asked the next question.
“Then, why are you here?”
“Because, Judge, I wanted you to know that I know. And soon enough everybody else will as well.”
“I am sure I don’t know what you are talking about. What do you know, Mr. Haller?”
“I know that you are for sale and that you tried to have me killed.”
She barked out a laugh but there was no mirth in her eyes, only daggers.
“Is this some kind of joke?”
“No, it’s no joke.”
“Then, Mr. Haller, I suggest you calm down and compose yourself. If you go around this courthouse making these kinds of outlandish accusations, then there will be consequences for you. Severe consequences. Maybe you are right. You are feeling the stress of coming back too soon from rehab.”
I smiled and I could tell by her face that she immediately realized her mistake.
“Slipped up there, didn’t you, Judge? How’d you know I was in rehab? Better yet, how did juror number seven know how to lure me away from home last night? The answer is, you had me backgrounded. You set me up and sent McSweeney out to kill me.”
“I don’t know what you are talking about and I don’t know this man you say tried to kill you.”
“Well, I think he knows you, and the last time I saw him he was about to start playing Let’s Make a Deal with the federal government.”
It hit her like a punch in the gut. I knew revealing it to her wasn’t going to endear me to Bosch or Armstead, but I didn’t care. Neither of them was the guy who had been used like a pawn and had nearly taken the high dive off Mulholland. I was that guy and that entitled me to confront the person I knew was behind it.
“I put it together without having to make a deal with anybody,” I said. “My investigator traced McSweeney. Nine years ago he was arrested for an ADW and who was his attorney? Mitch Lester, your husband. The next year he was popped again for fraud and once again it was Mitch Lester on the case. There’s the connection. It makes a nice little triangle, doesn’t it? You have access to and control of the jury pool and the selection process. You can get into the computers and it was you who planted the sleeper on my jury. Jerry Vincent paid you but then he changed his mind after the FBI came sniffing around. You couldn’t run the risk that Jerry might get jammed up with the FBI and try to deal a judge to them. So you sent McSweeney.
“Then, when it all turned to shit yesterday, you decided to clean house. You sent McSweeney—juror number seven—after Elliot and Albrecht, and then me. How am I doing, Judge? I miss anything so far?”
I said the word “judge” like it had the same meaning as garbage. She stood up.
“This is insane. You have no evidence connecting me to anyone but my husb
and. And making the leap from one of his clients to me is completely absurd.”
“You’re right, Judge. I don’t have evidence but we’re not in court here. This is just you and me. I just have my gut instincts and they tell me that this all comes back to you.”
“I want you to leave now.”
“But the feds, on the other hand? They have McSweeney.”
I could see it strike fear in her eyes.
“Guess you haven’t heard from him, have you? Yeah, I don’t think they’re letting him make any calls while they debrief him. You better hope he doesn’t have any of that evidence. Because if he puts you in that triangle, then you’ll be trading your black robe for an orange jumpsuit.”
“Get out or I will call courthouse security and have you arrested!”
She pointed toward the door. I calmly and slowly stood up.
“Sure, I’ll go. And you know something? I may never practice law again in this courthouse. But I promise you that I’ll come back to watch you be prosecuted. You and your husband. Count on it.”
The judge stared at me, her arm still extended toward the door, and I saw the anger in her eyes slowly change to fear. Her arm drooped a little and then she let it drop all the way. I left her standing there.
I took the stairs all the way down because I didn’t want to get on a crowded elevator. Eleven flights down. At the bottom I pushed through the glass doors and left the courthouse. I pulled my phone and called Patrick and told him to pull the car around. Then I called Bosch.
“I decided to light a fire under you and the bureau,” I told him.
“What do you mean? What did you do?”
“I didn’t want to wait around while the bureau took its usual year and a half to make a case. Sometimes justice can’t wait, Detective.”
“What did you do, Haller?”
“I just had a conversation with Judge Holder—yes, I figured it out without McSweeney’s help. I told her the feds had McSweeney and he was cooperating. If I were you and the bureau, I’d hurry the fuck up with your case and in the meantime keep tabs on her. She doesn’t seem like a runner to me, but you never know. Have a good day.”
I closed the phone before he could protest my actions. I didn’t care. He had used me the whole time. It felt good to turn the tables on him, make him and the FBI do the dancing at the end of the string.
The Brass Verdict Page 37