The Gods of Guilt mh-5

by Michael Connelly

  Yes, Judge Leggoe had allowed the admittance of the damning video, dismissing my motion to suppress the day before the start of jury selection with the single comment that the defense had failed to show that the police had used coercive tactics or had operated in bad faith in any way during the interview. The ruling was not unexpected and I immediately chose to see the silver lining in it; I now believed I had the first solid grounds for appeal should the verdict ultimately go against my client.

  Through the video Forsythe gave the jury motive and opportunity, using the defendant’s own words to establish them. In my many trials over nearly twenty-five years as a practicing attorney I had found nothing more difficult than undoing the damage inflicted upon defendants by their own words. So was the case here. Jurors always want to hear from the defendants, whether in direct testimony, videotape, or audiotape. It is in the instinctual interpretation of voice and personality that we form our judgments of others. Nothing beats that. Not fingerprints, not DNA, not the pointed finger of an eyewitness.

  Forsythe threw only one curve ball at me, but it was a good one. His final witness was another escort for whom La Cosse had formerly provided digital services and management. The prosecutor claimed that he had come forward only the day before after learning of the trial for the first time while reading the newspaper. I argued against his being allowed to testify, accusing the state of sandbagging, but to no avail. Leggoe said testimony of prior bad acts of a similar nature was admissible and allowed Forsythe to put him on the stand.

  Brian “Brandi” Goodrich was a small man no more than five three. He wore tight stonewashed jeans and a lavender polo shirt on the witness stand. He testified that he was a transvestite who worked as an escort managed by Andre La Cosse. He testified that Andre had once choked him into unconsciousness when he thought Goodrich was withholding money from him. When Goodrich came to, he was handcuffed to a floor-to-ceiling pole in his living room and he watched helplessly while La Cosse ransacked his home looking for the missing cash. Brandi brought all the usual histrionics to the stand with him — he tearfully recounted that he had feared for his life and felt lucky he hadn’t been killed.

  At the defense table, I leaned to Andre and smiled and shook my head as though this witness was just a nuisance and not worth taking seriously. But what I whispered to him wasn’t so light-hearted.

  “I need to know right now, did this happen? And don’t hang me out there with a lie, Andre.”

  He hesitated, then leaned in close to whisper back.

  “He’s exaggerating. I handcuffed him first to this stripper pole he had in the living room so I could search the place. I didn’t choke him out. I grabbed him by the neck one time so he would look at me and answer my questions. He was never unconscious and it didn’t even leave a mark. He went to work that night.”

  “He didn’t quit or go with someone else?”

  “He didn’t quit for six months. Not until he found a sugar daddy.”

  I leaned back away from Andre and waited for Forsythe to finish his direct. When it was my turn, I countered initially with a few questions I hoped would remind the jurors that Brandi was a prostitute and that he had never made any report of this near-death experience to the police.

  “Which hospital did you go to to have your neck treated?” I asked.

  “I didn’t go to the hospital,” he answered.

  “I see. So the hyoid bone in your neck was not crushed as it was with the victim of this case?”

  “I don’t know about the specific injuries in this case.”

  “Of course not. But you say you were choked into unconsciousness by the defendant and you never went to the police or to seek medical attention.”

  “I was just happy to be alive.”

  “And to work, too, correct?”

  “I don’t understand the question.”

  “You went to work as an escort the same night after this supposed life-and-death struggle took place, didn’t you?”

  “I don’t remember that.”

  “If I produced Mr. La Cosse’s business records regarding his bookings for you as a prostitute, would that help you remember?”

  “If I worked that night, it was only because he made me and threatened me if I didn’t.”

  “Okay, let’s go back to the alleged incident. Did the defendant use one hand or two?”

  “Both hands.”

  “You’re a grown man, did you defend yourself?”

  “I tried, but he’s a lot bigger than me.”

  “You said you then woke up handcuffed to a pole. Where were you when he allegedly choked you into unconsciousness?”

  “He grabbed me from behind as soon as I let him in the apartment.”

  “So he choked you from behind then?”

  “Yes, sort of.”

  “What do you mean, ‘sort of’? Did he choke you or not?”

  “He put his arm around my neck from behind and tightened it and I tried to fight because I thought he was going to kill me. But I blacked out.”

  “So why did you just testify that he used two hands to choke you?”

  “Well, ’cause he did. Hands and arms.”

  I let that hang out there for a few moments for the jury to consider. I thought I had successfully dented Goodrich’s credibility in a few places. I decided I should get out while I was ahead and took one last shot in the dark. It was a calculated risk, but I operate under the belief that voluntary witnesses usually want something in return. In this case, Goodrich obviously wanted revenge, but I had a hunch there was something more.

  “Mr. Goodrich, are you currently facing any criminal charges, misdemeanor or felony? Anything at all?”

  Goodrich’s eyes flicked toward the prosecution table for a split second.

  “In Los Angeles County? No.”

  “In any county anywhere, Mr. Goodrich.”

  Goodrich reluctantly revealed that he had a solicitation case pending in Orange County but denied he was testifying in exchange for help with that.

  “No further questions,” I said, my voice dripping with disdain.

  Forsythe tried to clean things up on redirect, hammering home that he had made no overture or promise to do anything to help Goodrich in Orange County.

  Goodrich was allowed to step down after that. I felt I had gotten a few good swings in, but still, the damage was done. Through the witness the prosecution had added a history of similar actions to the solid pillars of motive and opportunity already established. Forsythe’s case was complete then and he rested it at four p.m. Friday, guaranteeing me a weekend of fitful sleep and panicked preparation.

  Now it was Monday and it would soon be my turn in front of the jury. My task would be clear. To undo what Forsythe had done. To change the minds of the twelve jurors. In past trials my goal had been to change just one mind. In most cases, hanging a jury is as good as a not-guilty verdict. The DA often chooses not to retry and to soften its stance on a disposition. The case is a sick dog and it needs to be put down as quickly and as smoothly as possible. In the defense trenches that is a victory. But not this time. Not with Andre La Cosse. I was convinced that my client was many things but not a killer. I felt certain that he was innocent of the charges, and so I needed all twelve of the gods of guilt to smile upon me on the day of the verdict.

  I sat at the defense table, waiting for the deputies to bring La Cosse in from lockup. Those of us in the courtroom had already been alerted that the bus carrying him from Men’s Central was delayed in traffic. Once the defendant arrived the judge would come out from chambers and the defense’s case would begin.

  I passed the time by studying a page of notes I had jotted down for my opening statement. I had reserved the opener at the start of the trial, exercising my option to address the jury before the presentation of the defense. This is often a risky move because it means the jurors may go several days before hearing any sort of counterargument to the prosecution’s theory of the case and presentation of evidence.

/>   Forsythe gave his opening statement to the jury twelve days earlier. So much time had passed, it would seem that the state’s side was deeply and unalterably entrenched in the minds of the twelve. But I also felt that the jurors had to be dying to finally hear something from the defense, to hear the response to Forsythe, the video, and the scientific and physical evidence. They would start to get all of that today.

  At last, at nine forty, La Cosse was brought through the lockup door and into the courtroom. I turned and watched as the deputies led him to the defense table, removed the hip shackles, and sat him down next to me. He was wearing the second suit I had bought for him. I wanted him to have a different look than he’d had last week as we started the defense. Both suits had come off the rack in a two-for-one deal at Men’s Wearhouse. Lorna chose them after we’d checked out La Cosse’s own clothing and found nothing that presented the conservative, business-like appearance I wanted him to have in court. But the new suits did little to disguise his ongoing physical decline. He looked like someone suffering in the latter stages of terminal cancer. His weight loss had gone unchecked during his six-plus months of incarceration. He was gaunt, had developed rashes on his arms and neck in reaction to the industrial detergent used in the jail laundry, and his posture at the defense table made him look like an old man. I constantly had to tell him to sit up straight because the jury was watching.

  “Andre, you doing okay?” I asked as soon as he was seated.

  “Yeah,” he whispered. “The weekends in there are long.”

  “I know. They still giving you medicine for your stomach?”

  “They give it and I drink it, but I don’t know if it’s doing anything. I still feel like I’m on fire inside.”

  “Well, hopefully you won’t be in there too much longer and we’ll get you into a first-rate hospital as soon as you get out.”

  La Cosse nodded in a way that indicated he couldn’t quite believe he would ever leave the shackles and the jail behind. Long-term incarceration does that to an individual — eats away at hope. Even in an innocent man.

  “How are you doing, Mickey?” he asked. “How is your arm?”

  Despite his own circumstances, Andre never failed to inquire about me. In many ways I was still recovering from the crash of the Lincoln. Earl had died and I was battered and broken — but mostly on the inside.

  Physically, I’d suffered a concussion and needed surgery to reset my nose. It took twenty-nine stitches to close various lacerations and twice-a-week physical therapy sessions since then to help restore full motion to my left arm where ligaments were torn in the elbow.

  To put it bluntly, I got off easy. People might even say I walked away. But the physical injuries didn’t even approach the intensity of the internal damage that still lingered. I grieved every day for Earl Briggs, and the sorrow was only equaled by the burden of guilt I carried with it. A day didn’t go by that I didn’t recheck the moves and decisions I’d made in April. Most damning was the decision to keep the tracker on my car and to taunt those monitoring my movements by boldly driving to Victorville to see Hector Moya. The consequences of that decision would be with me forever, the image of a smiling Earl Briggs attached to them in my mind’s eye.

  By the time the wreckage of the Lincoln was examined, the GPS tracker was gone, but it had been there the afternoon before when Cisco had checked out the car. There is no doubt in my mind that I was followed to Victorville. And there is no doubt in my mind about who made the decision to send the Lincoln into the guardrail, if not did the deed himself. I had only one true purpose with this trial. That was to free Andre La Cosse and clear his name. But I considered destroying James Marco in the process to be an integral part of the trial strategy.

  When I looked back on what happened up on the 15 Freeway, only one thing came out of it that could even remotely be considered good. A rescue helicopter transported both me and Earl to Desert Valley Hospital back in Victorville. Earl was dead on arrival and I was admitted to the ER. When I came out of surgery, my daughter was there at my bedside, holding my hand. It went a long way toward healing things inside me.

  The trial was pushed back almost a month while I recovered, and that cost had been borne most heavily by Andre. Another month of incarceration, another month of withering hope. He never once complained about it. He only wanted me to get better.

  “I’m good,” I said to him now. “Thank you for asking. I can’t wait to get started because now it’s finally your turn, Andre. Today we start telling a different story.”

  “Good.”

  He said it without much conviction.

  “You just gotta concentrate on one thing for me, Andre.”

  “Yeah, I know, I know. Don’t look guilty.”

  “You got it.”

  I gave him a playful punch on the shoulder with my good arm. It had been the mantra I had given him from day one. Don’t look guilty. A man who looks guilty is found guilty. In Andre’s case it was easier said than done. He looked destroyed, and that wasn’t too far off from looking guilty.

  Of course, I knew something about looking guilty and feeling guilty. But like Andre, I was trying to play my part. I hadn’t had a drink since the night before jury selection began. Not even on the weekends. I was sharp and I was ready. For Andre, today was the first day of the rest of his life. Mine, too.

  “I just wish David was here,” Andre said in a whisper so low I almost didn’t hear him.

  Reflexively prompted by what he’d said, I turned slightly and my eyes swept across the rear of the courtroom. As had been the case since the start of the trial, the gallery was almost empty. There was an accused serial killer on trial in Department 111 and that was drawing most of the media. The La Cosse case had gotten scant attention in the news, and the cynic in me decided this was because the victim here had been a prostitute.

  But I did have a cheering section. Kendall Roberts and Lorna Taylor sat in the first row directly behind the defense table. Lorna had been making periodic visits throughout the trial. This was Kendall’s first day watching. Wary of coming to the courthouse and possibly seeing someone from her past, she had stayed away until I had pointedly asked her to come for at least my opening statement. We had grown close since April and I wanted her there for the emotional support.

  And in the back row were two men who had been in attendance every day since the start of jury selection. I did not know their names but I knew who they were. They wore expensive suits but looked out of place in them. They were muscular and had deeply tanned skin from lives seemingly spent outdoors and not in courtrooms. They had the same build as Hector Arrande Moya, with wide, sharp shoulders, and I had come to think of them simply as Moya’s Men. They were part of the contingent of protectors Moya had dispatched to watch over me after the car crash in the mountains. I had turned down his offer of protection that day in the visiting room. It was too late for Earl Briggs now, but I didn’t turn down the offer a second time.

  But that was it. No one else was watching the trial. La Cosse’s life partner, David, was missing from the benches. He had split, having staged a full withdrawal of La Cosse’s remaining gold and leaving town on the eve of the trial. More than anything else, that loss contributed to Andre’s demeanor and downward spiral.

  In a way, I understood it. Having Kendall in the courtroom was a special thing for me. I felt supported and less alone. Like I had a partner in the fight. But my daughter had so far not set foot in the courtroom and that hurt. The hospital room reunion had only gone so far in rekindling the relationship. And school was no longer an excuse, as it had let out for the year halfway through the prosecution’s case. I think my reflexive act to check the gallery was actually one more hopeful search for her.

  “You can’t worry about that now,” I whispered to Andre — and myself. “You have to look strong. Be strong.”

  Andre nodded and tried to smile.

  When David had taken the gold and run, La Cosse wasn’t the only one he had left high an
d dry. By then I had already taken receipt of a second bar of gold as continuing payment. A third bar was due at the start of trial, but the gold was gone by then. So a case that I had earlier viewed as a potential financial bonanza had turned pro bono as the trial began. Team Haller was no longer getting paid.

  At exactly ten o’clock the judge emerged from chambers and took the bench. As was her custom, Judge Leggoe eyed Forsythe and me and asked if there was any business to consider before she brought in the jury. This time there was. I stood, holding a set of documents, and said I had an amended witness list for the court to consider and approve. She waved me up to the bench and I handed her a copy of the new list and then dropped another one off with Forsythe on my way back. I was barely seated again when Forsythe stood to object.

  “Your Honor, Counsel is engaged in an age-old practice of deception by trying to hide his real witnesses in a sea of names. His pretrial list was enormous and now he’s added what I estimate to be twenty to twenty-five more names and it is evident most of these will not be actually called.”

  He gestured with the pages behind him to where Lee Lankford sat in a row of chairs against the rail.

  “I see he has my own DA investigator on here now,” Forsythe continued. “And let’s see, he’s got not one but now two federal prisoners on here. He’s got one… two… three prison guards. He’s got what looks like every resident in the victim’s building—”

  He abruptly cut off the litany and dropped the pages on his table as though depositing them in the trash.