The Lincoln Lawyer Collection

by Connelly, Michael

  Vincent moved in his seat, going through the body language of making an objection but not verbally following through with it. He must have known it would be useless. I had led Torrance down the path and he was mine.

  Torrance answered the question.

  “I took it that they were black and he killed ’em both.”

  Now Vincent’s body language changed again. He sank a little bit in his seat because he knew his gamble in putting a jailhouse snitch on the witness stand had just come up snake eyes.

  I looked up at Judge Companioni. He knew what was coming as well.

  “Your Honor, may I approach the witness?”

  “You may,” the judge said.

  I walked to the witness stand and put the file down in front of Torrance. It was legal size, well worn and faded orange—a color used by county jailers to denote private legal documents that an inmate is authorized to possess.

  “Okay, Mr. Torrance, I have placed before you a file in which Mr. Woodson keeps discovery documents provided to him in jail by his attorneys. I ask you once again if you recognize it.”

  “I seen a lotta orange files in high-power. It don’t mean I seen that one.”

  “You are saying you never saw Mr. Woodson with his file?”

  “I don’t rightly remember.”

  “Mr. Torrance, you were with Mr. Woodson in the same module for thirty-two days. You testified he confided in you and confessed to you. Are you saying you never saw him with that file?”

  He didn’t answer at first. I had backed him into a no-win corner. I waited. If he continued to claim he had never seen the file, then his claim of a confession from Woodson would be suspect in the eyes of the jury. If he finally conceded that he was familiar with the file, then he opened a big door for me.

  “What’m saying is that I seen him with his file but I never looked at what was in it.”

  Bang. I had him.

  “Then, I’ll ask you to open the file and inspect it.”

  The witness followed the instruction and looked from side to side at the open file. I went back to the lectern, checking on Vincent on my way. His eyes were downcast and his face was pale.

  “What do you see when you open the file, Mr. Torrance?”

  “One side’s got photos of two bodies on the ground. They’re stapled in there—the photos, I mean. And the other side is a bunch of documents and reports and such.”

  “Could you read from the first document there on the right side? Just read the first line of the summary.”

  “No, I can’t read.”

  “You can’t read at all?”

  “Not really. I didn’t get the schooling.”

  “Can you read any of the words that are next to the boxes that are checked at the top of the summary?”

  Torrance looked down at the file and his eyebrows came together in concentration. I knew that his reading skills had been tested during his last stint in prison and were determined to be at the lowest measurable level—below second-grade skills.

  “Not really,” he said. “I can’t read.”

  I quickly walked over to the defense table and grabbed another file and a Sharpie pen out of my briefcase. I went back to the lectern and quickly printed the word CAUCASIAN on the outside of the file in large block letters. I held the file up so that Torrance, as well as the jury, could see it.

  “Mr. Torrance, this is one of the words checked on the summary. Can you read this word?”

  Vincent immediately stood but Torrance was already shaking his head and looking thoroughly humiliated. Vincent objected to the demonstration without proper foundation and Companioni sustained. I expected him to. I was just laying the groundwork for my next move with the jury and I was sure most of them had seen the witness shake his head.

  “Okay, Mr. Torrance,” I said. “Let’s move to the other side of the file. Could you describe the bodies in the photos?”

  “Um, two men. It looks like they opened up some chicken wire and some tarps and they’re laying there. A bunch a police is there investigatin’ and takin’ pictures.”

  “What race are the men on the tarps?”

  “They’re black.”

  “Have you ever seen those photographs before, Mr. Torrance?”

  Vincent stood to object to my question as having previously been asked and answered. But it was like holding up a hand to stop a bullet. The judge sternly told him he could take his seat. It was his way of telling the prosecutor he was going to have to just sit back and take what was coming. You put the liar on the stand, you take the fall with him.

  “You may answer the question, Mr. Torrance,” I said after Vincent sat down. “Have you ever seen those photographs before?”

  “No, sir, not before right now.”

  “Would you agree that the pictures portray what you described to us earlier? That being the bodies of two slain black men?”

  “That’s what it looks like. But I ain’t seen the picture before, just what he tell me.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “Something like these I wouldn’t forget.”

  “You’ve told us Mr. Woodson confessed to killing two black men, but he is on trial for killing two white men. Wouldn’t you agree that it appears that he didn’t confess to you at all?”

  “No, he confessed. He told me he killed those two.”

  I looked up at the judge.

  “Your Honor, the defense asks that the file in front of Mr. Torrance be admitted into evidence as defense exhibit one.”

  Vincent made a lack-of-foundation objection but Companioni overruled.

  “It will be admitted and we’ll let the jury decide whether Mr. Torrance has or hasn’t seen the photographs and contents of the file.”

  I was on a roll and decided to go all in.

  “Thank you,” I said. “Your Honor, now might also be a good time for the prosecutor to reacquaint his witness with the penalties for perjury.”

  It was a dramatic move made for the benefit of the jury. I was expecting I would have to continue with Torrance and eviscerate him with the blade of his own lie. But Vincent stood and asked the judge to recess the trial while he conferred with opposing counsel.

  This told me I had just saved Barnett Woodson’s life.

  “The defense has no objection,” I told the judge.

  Three

  After the jury filed out of the box, I returned to the defense table as the courtroom deputy was moving in to cuff my client and take him back to the courtroom holding cell.

  “That guy’s a lying sack of shit,” Woodson whispered to me. “I didn’t kill two black guys. They were white.”

  My hope was that the deputy hadn’t heard that.

  “Why don’t you shut the fuck up?” I whispered right back. “And next time you see that lying sack of shit in lockup, you ought to shake his hand. Because of his lies the prosecutor’s about to come off of the death penalty and float a deal. I’ll be back there to tell you about it as soon as I get it.”

  Woodson shook his head dramatically.

  “Yeah, well, maybe I don’t want no deal now. They put a goddamn liar on the stand, man. This whole case should go down the toilet. We can win this motherfucker, Haller. Don’t take no deal.”

  I stared at Woodson for a moment. I had just saved his life but he wanted more. He felt entitled because the state hadn’t played fair—never mind responsibility for the two kids he had just admitted to killing.

  “Don’t get greedy, Barnett,” I told him. “I’ll be back with the news as soon as I get it.”

  The deputy took him through the steel door that led to the holding cells attached to the courtroom. I watched him go. I had no false conceptions about Barnett Woodson. I had never directly asked him but I knew he had killed those two Westside boys. That wasn’t my concern. My job was to test the state’s case against him with the best of my skills—that’s how the system worked. I had done that and had been given the blade. I would now use it to improve his situation significantly
, but Woodson’s dream of walking away from those two bodies that had turned black in the water was not in the cards. He might not have understood this but his underpaid and underappreciated public defender certainly did.

  After the courtroom cleared, Vincent and I were left looking at each other from our respective tables.

  “So,” I said.

  Vincent shook his head.

  “First of all,” he said. “I want to make it clear that obviously I didn’t know Torrance was lying.”

  “Sure.”

  “Why would I sabotage my own case like this?”

  I waved off the mea culpa.

  “Look, Jerry, don’t bother. I told you in pretrial that the guy had copped the discovery my client had in his cell. It’s common sense. My guy wouldn’t have said shit to your guy, a perfect stranger, and everybody knew it except you.”

  Vincent emphatically shook his head.

  “I did not know it, Haller. He came forward, was vetted by one of our best investigators, and there was no indication of a lie, no matter how improbable it would seem that your client talked to him.”

  I laughed that off in an unfriendly way.

  “Not ‘talked’ to him, Jerry. Confessed to him. A little difference there. So you better check with this prized investigator of yours because he isn’t worth the county paycheck.”

  “Look, he told me the guy couldn’t read, so there was no way he could have gotten what he knew out of the discovery. He didn’t mention the photos.”

  “Exactly, and that’s why you should find yourself a new investigator. And I’ll tell you what, Jerry. I’m usually pretty reasonable about this sort of stuff. I try to go along to get along with the DA’s office. But I gave you fair warning about this guy. So after the break, I’m going to gut him right there on the stand and all you’re going to be able to do is sit there and watch.”

  I was in full outrage now, and a lot of it was real.

  “It’s called ‘rope a dope.’ But when I’m done with Torrance, he’s not the only one who’s going to look like a dope. That jury’s going to know that you either knew this guy was a liar or you were too dumb to realize it. Either way, you’re not coming off too good.”

  Vincent looked down blankly at the prosecution table and calmly straightened the case files stacked in front of him. He spoke in a quiet voice.

  “I don’t want you going forward with the cross,” he said.

  “Fine. Then, cut the denials and the bullshit and give me a dispo I can—”

  “I’ll drop the death penalty. Twenty-five to life without.”

  I shook my head without hesitation.

  “That’s not going to do it. The last thing Woodson said before they took him back was that he was willing to roll the dice. To be exact, he said, ‘We can win this motherfucker.’ And I think he could be right.”

  “Then, what do you want, Haller?”

  “I’ll go fifteen max. I think I can sell that to him.”

  Vincent emphatically shook his head.

  “No way. They’ll send me back to filing buy-busts if I give you that for two cold-blooded murders. My best offer is twenty-five with parole. That’s it. Under current guidelines he could be out in sixteen, seventeen years. Not bad for what he did, killing two kids like that.”

  I looked at him, trying to read his face, looking for the tell. I decided I believed it was going to be the best he would do. And he was right, it wasn’t a bad deal for what Barnett Woodson had done.

  “I don’t know,” I said. “I think he’ll say roll the dice.”

  Vincent shook his head and looked at me.

  “Then, you’ll have to sell it to him, Haller. Because I can’t go lower and if you continue the cross, then my career in the DA’s office is probably finished.”

  Now I hesitated before responding.

  “Wait a minute, what are you saying, Jerry? That I have to clean your mess up for you? I catch you with your pants around your ankles and it’s my client that has to take it in the ass?”

  “I’m saying it’s a fair offer to a man who is guilty as sin. More than fair. Go talk to him and work your magic, Mick. Convince him. We both know you’re not long for the Public Defenders Office. You might need a favor from me someday when you’re out there in the big bad world with no steady paycheck coming in.”

  I just stared back at him, registering the quid pro quo of the offer. I help him and somewhere down the line he helps me, and Barnett Woodson does an extra couple of years in stir.

  “He’ll be lucky to last five years in there, let alone twenty,” Vincent said. “What’s the difference to him? But you and I? We’re going places, Mickey. We can help each other here.”

  I nodded slowly. Vincent was only a few years older than me but was trying to act like some kind of wise old sage.

  “The thing is, Jerry, if I did what you suggest, then I’d never be able to look another client in the eye again. I think I’d end up being the dope that got roped.”

  I stood up and gathered my files. My plan was to go back and tell Barnett Woodson to roll the dice and let me see what I could do.

  “I’ll see you after the break,” I said.

  And then I walked away.

  PART TWO

  —Suitcase City 2007

  Four

  It was a little early in the week for Lorna Taylor to be calling and checking on me. Usually she waited until at least Thursday. Never Tuesday. I picked up the phone, thinking it was more than a check-in call.

  “Lorna?”

  “Mickey, where’ve you been? I’ve been calling all morning.”

  “I went for my run. I just got out of the shower. You okay?”

  “I’m fine. Are you?”

  “Sure. What is—?”

  “You got a forthwith from Judge Holder. She wants to see you—like an hour ago.”

  This gave me pause.

  “About what?”

  “I don’t know. All I know is first Michaela called, then the judge herself called. That usually doesn’t happen. She wanted to know why you weren’t responding.”

  I knew that Michaela was Michaela Gill, the judge’s clerk. And Mary Townes Holder was the chief judge of the Los Angeles Superior Court. The fact that she had called personally didn’t make it sound like they were inviting me to the annual justice ball. Mary Townes Holder didn’t call lawyers without a good reason.

  “What did you tell her?”

  “I just said you didn’t have court today and you might be out on the golf course.”

  “I don’t play golf, Lorna.”

  “Look, I couldn’t think of anything.”

  “It’s all right, I’ll call the judge. Give me the number.”

  “Mickey, don’t call. Just go. The judge wants to see you in chambers. She was very clear about that and she wouldn’t tell me why. So just go.”

  “Okay, I’m going. I have to get dressed.”

  “Mickey?”

  “What?”

  “How are you really doing?”

  I knew her code. I knew what she was asking. She didn’t want me appearing in front of a judge if I wasn’t ready for it.

  “You don’t have to worry, Lorna. I’m fine. I’ll be fine.”

  “Okay. Call me and let me know what is going on as soon as you can.”

  “Don’t worry. I will.”

  I hung up the phone, feeling like I was being bossed around by my wife, not my ex-wife.

  Five

  As the chief judge of the Los Angeles Superior Court, Judge Mary Townes Holder did most of her work behind closed doors. Her courtroom was used on occasion for emergency hearings on motions but rarely used for trials. Her work was done out of the view of the public. In chambers. Her job largely pertained to the administration of the justice system in Los Angeles County. More than two hundred fifty judgeships and forty courthouses fell under her purview. Every jury summons that went into the mail had her name on it, and every assigned parking space in a courthouse garage had he
r approval. She assigned judges by both geography and designation of law—criminal, civil, juvenile and family. When judges were newly elected to the bench, it was Judge Holder who decided whether they sat in Beverly Hills or Compton, and whether they heard high-stakes financial cases in civil court or soul-draining divorce cases in family court.

  I had dressed quickly in what I considered my lucky suit. It was an Italian import from Corneliani that I used to wear on verdict days. Since I hadn’t been in court for a year, or heard a verdict for even longer, I had to take it out of a plastic bag hanging in the back of the closet. After that I sped downtown without delay, thinking that I might be headed toward some sort of verdict on myself. As I drove, my mind raced over the cases and clients I had left behind a year earlier. As far as I knew, nothing had been left open or on the table. But maybe there had been a complaint or the judge had picked up on some courthouse gossip and was running her own inquiry. Regardless, I entered Holder’s courtroom with a lot of trepidation. A summons from any judge was usually not good news; a summons from the chief judge was even worse.

  The courtroom was dark and the clerk’s pod next to the bench was empty. I walked through the gate and was heading toward the door to the back hallway, when it opened and the clerk stepped through it. Michaela Gill was a pleasant-looking woman who reminded me of my third-grade teacher. But she wasn’t expecting to find a man approaching the other side of the door when she opened it. She startled and nearly let out a shriek. I quickly identified myself before she could make a run for the panic button on the judge’s bench. She caught her breath and then ushered me back without delay.

  I walked down the hallway and found the judge alone in her chambers, working at a massive desk made of dark wood. Her black robe was hanging on a hat rack in the corner. She was dressed in a maroon suit with a conservative cut. She was attractive and neat, midfifties with a slim build and brown hair kept in a short, no-nonsense style.

  I had never met Judge Holder before but I knew about her. She had put twenty years in as a prosecutor before being appointed to the bench by a conservative governor. She presided over criminal cases, had a few of the big ones, and was known for handing out maximum sentences. Consequently, she had been easily retained by the electorate after her first term. She had been elected chief judge four years later and had held the position ever since.