“Take them out like this.”
I held my finger and thumb close together.
“They can get fingerprints off money?”
“They sure can and if we can get Dahl’s off those then it doesn’t matter what he says about you. He’s nailed.”
I opened a drawer of the little table to the side of my bed. A plastic Ziploc bag containing my wallet and keys and loose change and currency was there. It had all been bagged by the paramedics who had been called to the garage of the Victory Building. Cisco had secured it and had only just given it back. I dumped the contents into the drawer and then handed the bag to Rojas.
“Okay, put the money in there and seal it.”
He did as instructed and then I waved him over to give me the bag. The hundreds looked crisp and new. Less prior handling of the currency would mean a better shot at pulling prints.
“Cisco will take it from here. I’ll call him and tell him to come back and pick these up. At some point he’ll need your prints.”
“Uh…”
Rojas’s eyes were on the bag and the money.
“What?”
“Will I get that money back?”
I put the bag in the drawer and slammed it shut.
“Jesus Christ, Rojas, get out of here before I change my mind and fire your ass.”
“Okay, okay, I’m sorry, you know?”
“You’re sorry you got caught and that’s all. Just go! I can’t believe I just gave you a second chance. I must be a fucking idiot.”
Rojas retreated like a dog with its tail between its legs. After he was gone I slowly lowered the bed and tried not to think about his betrayal or who had sent the two men in black gloves or anything else to do with the case. I looked up at the bag of clear liquid hanging up there overhead and waited for the blessed boost that would make at least some of the pain go away.
Thirteen
As expected, Lisa Trammel was held to answer and ordered to stand trial for murder by Judge Dario Morales at the end of a daylong preliminary hearing in Van Nuys Superior Court. Using Detective Howard Kurlen as her primary carrier of evidence, Prosecutor Andrea Freeman deftly presented a net of circumstantial evidence that quickly enclosed Lisa. Freeman took the case across the preponderance threshold like a hundred-meter sprinter and the judge was equally swift in rendering his ruling. It was routine. Matter-of-fact. Chop-chop and Lisa was held to answer.
My client was there at the defense table for the hearing but I was not. Jennifer Aronson held forth for the defense as best she could in a one-sided game. The judge had allowed the hearing to proceed only after questioning Lisa exhaustively to assure himself that her decision to go forward without me there was knowing, voluntary and strategic. Lisa acknowledged in open court that she was aware of Aronson’s lack of courtroom experience and waived any claim to the argument of ineffective counsel as grounds for an appeal of the judge’s eventual determination.
I watched most of it from the confines of my home where I was continuing to recover from my injuries. KTLA Channel 5 had carried the morning session live in lieu of other local programming before flipping back to the usual slate of insipid afternoon talk shows. This meant I missed only the last two hours of the hearing. But that was okay because by that point I knew how it would go. There were no surprises and the only disappointment was in not getting any sort of new read on how the prosecution would unfurl the flag at trial, when it all counted.
As decided during our prep sessions in my room at Holy Cross, Aronson presented no witnesses or any affirmative defense. We chose to reserve any indication of our hypothesis of innocence for trial, when the threshold of guilt beyond a reasonable doubt raised the game to almost an even match. Aronson used cross-examination of the state’s witnesses sparingly. These were all seasoned veterans of courtroom testimony—Kurlen, a forensic expert and the medical examiner among them. Freeman chose not to put Margo Schafer on the stand, using Kurlen to recount his interview with the eyewitness who placed Lisa Trammel a block from the murder. There wasn’t much to get from the state’s lineup and so our strategy was to observe and wait. To bide our time. We would simply go at them at trial where we stood the best chance.
At the end of the hearing Lisa was ordered to stand trial before Judge Coleman Perry on the sixth floor of the courthouse. Perry was yet another judge I had never stood before. But since I knew his courtroom was one of four possible destinations for my client, I had done some checking with other members of the defense bar. The overall report I got was that Perry was a straight shooter with a short temper. He was fair until you crossed him and then he was prone to hold a grudge that might last an entire trial. It was good knowledge to have as the case progressed to its final stage.
Two days later, I finally felt ready to return to the fray. My broken fingers were bound tightly in a form-fitted plaster cast and my bruised torso was losing the shadings of deep blue and purple for a sickly tone of yellow. My scalp stitches had been removed and I was able to delicately comb my hair back over the shaved wound as if I was hiding a bald spot. Best of all, my formerly twisted testicle, which the doctor had ultimately chosen not to remove, was improving a little bit every day, according to the doctor and his powers of observation and palpation. It was left to see whether it would resume normal activity and function, or die on the vine like an unpicked Roma tomato.
By previous arrangement, Rojas had the Lincoln at the bottom of the front steps at eleven o’clock sharp. I slowly made my way down, walking cane firmly in hand. Rojas was there to help me get into the back of the car. We moved carefully and soon I was in my usual place, ready to roll. Rojas jumped behind the wheel and we jerked forward and down the hill.
“Easy, Rojas. It hurts too much for me to wear a seat belt. So don’t send me into the front seat.”
“Sorry, Boss. I’ll do better. Where are we going today? The office?”
He had gotten that Boss stuff from Cisco. I hated being called a boss, even though I knew that was what I was.
“The office is later. First we go to Archway Pictures on Melrose.”
“You got it.”
Archway was a second-tier studio across Melrose from one of the behemoths, Paramount Pictures. Started as a studio lot to handle the overflow demand for soundstages and equipment, it grew into a self-sustaining studio under the guidance of the late Walter Elliot. It now made its own slate of films each year and created its own overflow demand. Coincidentally, Elliot happened to be a client of mine at one time.
It took Rojas twenty minutes to get from my house above Laurel Canyon to the studio. He pulled up to the security booth at the signature arch that spanned the studio’s entrance. I lowered the window and told the security man who approached me that I was there to see Clegg McReynolds. He asked for my name and ID and I gave him my driver’s license. He retreated to the booth and consulted a computer screen. He frowned.
“I’m sorry, sir, but you’re not on the drive-on list. Do you have an appointment?”
“No appointment but he’ll want to see me.”
I hadn’t wanted to give McReynolds too much advance notice.
“Well, I can’t let you in without an appointment.”
“Can you call him and tell him I’m here? He’ll want to see me. You know who he is, right?”
The implication was clear. This was one you didn’t want to screw up.
The guard slid the door shut while he made the call to McReynolds. Through the glass I saw him talking. He had a live one on the line. Then he slid the door open and extended the phone to me. It was on a long cord. I took it and then raised the window on the guard. Tit for tat.
“This is Michael Haller. Is this Mr. McReynolds?”
“No, this is Mr. McReynolds’s personal assistant. How can I help you, Mr. Haller? I see no appointment here in the book and, frankly, I don’t know who you are.”
The voice was female, young and confident.
“I’m the guy who is going to make your boss’s life miserable if you do
n’t get him on the line.”
There was a bubble of silence before the voice responded.
“I don’t think I like your threatening manner. Mr. McReynolds is on the set and—”
“It was not a threat. I don’t make threats. I just speak the truth. Where’s the set?”
“I’m not telling you that. You’re not getting anywhere near Clegg until I know what this is about.”
I noted that she was on a first-name basis with the boss. A horn blared from behind me. The cars were stacking up. The guard rapped his knuckles on my window, then bent down to try to see in through the smoked glass. I ignored him. A second horn honked from the rear.
“This is about your saving your boss a lot of grief. Are you familiar with the deal he announced last week regarding the woman accused of killing the banker foreclosing on her home?”
“Yes, I am.”
“Well, your boss acquired those rights illegally. I’m assuming this was through no fault or knowledge of his own. If I’m right, he’s the victim of a scam and I’m here to make it right for him. This is a one-time opportunity. After this, Clegg McReynolds gets pulled down into the quicksand.”
The final threat was punctuated with another long blast from the car directly behind me and a sharp rap on the window.
“Talk to the guard,” I said. “Tell him yea or nay.”
I lowered the window and handed the phone out to the angry guard. He held it to his ear.
“What’s it going to be? I’ve got a line of cars out to Melrose here.”
He listened and then stepped back into his booth and hung up the phone. Then he looked at me as he pushed the button that opened the gate.
“Stage nine,” he said. “Straight ahead and left at the end. You can’t miss it.”
I threw him a told-you-so smile as I raised the window and Rojas drove under the rising gate.
Stage 9 was a soundstage big enough to house an aircraft carrier. It was surrounded by equipment trucks, star wagons and craft services vans. Four stretch limos were parked end to end along one side, their engines running and drivers waiting for filming to end and the anointed to exit.
It looked like a major production but I wasn’t going to get the chance to see what it was about. Walking down the middle of the driveway between Buildings 9 and 10 were an older man and a younger woman. The woman wore a headset, which I assumed made her a PA. She pointed a finger at my approaching car.
“Okay, let me out here.”
Rojas stopped and as I was opening the door my phone rang. I pulled it and looked at the screen.
ID UNAVAILABLE
It said that on the calls I used to get from my clients in the drug trade. They used cheap throw-away phones to avoid wiretaps and record searches. I ignored the call and left the phone on the seat. You want me to answer your call, you gotta tell me who you are.
I slowly got out, leaving the cane behind as well. Why advertise a weakness, my father, the great lawyer, always said. I slowly walked toward the producer and his assistant.
“You’re Haller?” the man called out.
“That’s me.”
“I want you to know that this production you just pulled me out of is running a quarter million dollars an hour. They went ahead and shut down inside just so I could come outside to deal with you.”
“I appreciate that and I’ll make it quick.”
“Good. Now what the fuck is this about me being scammed? Nobody scams me!”
I looked at him and waited and said nothing. It only took McReynolds five more seconds to blow another gasket.
“Well, are you going to tell me or not? I don’t have all day here.”
I looked at his personal assistant and then back at him. He got the message.
“Uh-uh, I’m going to have a witness to anything that’s said here. The girl stays.”
I shrugged and pulled a compact recorder out of my pocket and turned it on. I held it up, its red light glowing.
“Then I’ll make sure I have a record, too.”
McReynolds looked down at the device and I could see the concern in his eyes. His voice, his words preserved on tape. That could be dangerous in a place like Hollywood. Visions of Mel Gibson danced in his head.
“Okay, turn that off and Jenny goes.”
“Clegg!” Jenny protested.
McReynolds reached down and spanked her hard on the rump.
“I said go.”
Humiliated, the young woman hurried off like a schoolgirl.
“Sometimes you have to treat ’em that way,” McReynolds explained.
“And I’m sure they learn from it.”
McReynolds nodded in agreement, not picking up on the sarcasm in my voice.
“So again, Haller, what’s this about?”
“It’s about you, Clegg, being played for a sucker by Herb Dahl, your partner on the Lisa Trammel deal.”
McReynolds emphatically shook his head.
“No way. Legal’s all over that deal. It’s squeaky clean. Even the woman signed off. Trammel. I could make her a three-hundred-pound whore who likes black dick in the movie and she couldn’t do a thing about it. That deal is perfect.”
“Yeah, well, what Legal’s missed is the part about neither one of them having the rights to the story to sell you in the first place. Those rights happen to reside here with me. Trammel signed them over to me before Dahl came along and took second position. He thought he could move up one by stealing the original contracts out of my files. Only that’s not going to work. I’ve got a witness to the theft and Dahl’s fingerprints. He’s going to go down on fraud and theft charges and your choice here is to decide whether you want to go down with him, Clegg.”
“Are you threatening me? Is this some sort of shakedown? Nobody shakes me down.”
“No, no shakedown. I just want what’s mine. So you can either stick with Dahl as your partner or you can have the same deal with me.”
“It’s too late. I signed. We all signed. The deal is done.”
He turned to walk away.
“Have you paid him?”
He turned back to me.
“Are you kidding? This is Hollywood.”
“And you probably only signed deal memos, right?”
“That’s right. Contracts in four weeks.”
“Then your deal is announced but not done. That’s how you do it in Hollywood. But if you want to make a change, you can. If you want to find a deal killer, you can.”
“I don’t want to do any of that. I like the project. Dahl brought it to me. I made the deal with him.”
I nodded like I understood his dilemma.
“Suit yourself. But I go to the police tomorrow morning and file the suit in the afternoon. You’ll be named as a defendant. As someone who colluded in the perpetration of the fraud.”
“I did no such thing! I didn’t even know about all of this until you told me.”
“That’s right. I told you and you did nothing. You chose to move forward with a thief despite knowing the facts. That’s collusion and that makes my case.”
I reached into my pocket and pulled the tape recorder out. I held it up so he could see the red light was still on.
“I’m going to tie this movie up so long, the girl whose ass you just slapped will be running this place by the time it’s done.”
This time I walked away and he called me back.
“Wait a minute, Haller.”
I turned around. He looked off to the north, toward the sign high on the mountain that drew everybody here.
“What do I need to do?” he asked.
“You need to make the same deal with me. I’ll take care of Dahl. He deserves something and he’ll get it.”
“I need a phone number to give Legal.”
I pulled a card and gave it to him.
“Remember, I have to hear something today.”
“You will.”
“By the way, what are the numbers on the deal?”
“Two-f
ifty against a million. Another quarter to produce.”
I nodded. A quarter million dollars up front would certainly fund Lisa Trammel’s defense. There might even be a piece left over for Herb Dahl. It all depended on how I wanted to handle this and how fair I wanted to be to a thief. Realistically, I’d have liked to put the guy in the ground, but then again he did find the project a legitimate home.
“Tell you what, I’m the only guy in town who will ever say this, but I don’t want to produce. You keep that part of the deal with Dahl. That’s his end.”
“As long as he’s not in jail.”
“Put a character clause in the contract.”
“That’ll be something new around here. I hope Legal can handle it.”
“Pleasure doing business with you, Clegg.”
Once more I turned and headed back toward my car. This time Clegg came up alongside me and walked with me.
“We’ll be able to reach you, right? We’ll need you as a technical advisor. Especially on the screenplay.”
“You have my card.”
I got to the Lincoln and Rojas had the door open for me. Once again I carefully slipped in, nice and easy on the cojones, and then looked back at McReynolds.
“One more thing,” the producer said. “I was thinking of going to Matthew McConaughey with this. He’d be excellent. But who do you think could play you?”
I smiled at him and reached for the door handle.
“You’re looking at him, Clegg.”
I pulled the door closed and through the smoked glass watched the confusion spread on his face.
I told Rojas to head toward Van Nuys.
Fourteen
Rojas told me that my phone had been ringing repeatedly while I was talking to McReynolds. I checked it and found no messages. I then opened the call record and saw that a total of four calls from a line with an unavailable ID had come in during the ten minutes I was out of the car. The time intervals were too disparate for it to have been an errant fax call on a repeat dialer. Someone had been trying to reach me but apparently it wasn’t urgent enough to warrant leaving a message.
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