The Lincoln Lawyer Collection

by Connelly, Michael

  The shooter was indeed Eli Wyms, a forty-four-year-old house-painter from Inglewood. He was characterized in the arrest report as drunk, angry and suicidal. Earlier in the day, he had been kicked out of his home by his wife, who informed him that she was in love with another man. Wyms had driven to the ocean and then north to Malibu and then over the mountains to Calabasas. He saw the park and thought it looked like a good place to stop the truck and sleep, but he drove on by and bought a case of beer at a gas station near the 101 Freeway. He then turned around and went back to the park.

  Wyms told the negotiator that he started shooting because he heard noises in the dark and was afraid. He believed he was shooting at rabid coyotes that wanted to eat him. He said he could see their red eyes glowing in the dark. He said he shot out the spotlight on the first patrol car that arrived because he was afraid the light would give his position away to the animals. When asked about the shot from eighty yards, he said he had qualified as an expert marksman during the first war in Iraq.

  The report estimated that Wyms fired at least twenty-seven times while deputies were on the scene and dozens of times before that. Investigators eventually collected a total of ninety-four spent bullet casings.

  Wyms did not surrender that night until he ran out of beer. Shortly after crushing the last empty in his hand, he told the cell-phone negotiator that he would trade one rifle for a six-pack of beer. He was turned down. He then announced that he was sorry and ready for the incident and everything else to be over, that he was going to kill himself and literally go out with a bang. The negotiator tried to talk him out of it and kept the conversation going while a two-man SWAT unit moved through the heavy terrain toward his position in a dense stand of eucalyptus trees. But soon the negotiator heard snoring on the cell line. Wyms had passed out.

  The SWAT team moved in and Wyms was captured without a shot being fired by law enforcement. Order was restored. Since Deputy Stallworth had taken the initial call and was the one fired upon, he was given the collar. The gunman was placed in Stallworth’s squad car and transported to the Malibu substation and jailed.

  Other documents in the file continued the Eli Wyms saga. At his arraignment the morning after his arrest, Wyms was declared indigent and assigned a public defender. The case moved slowly in the system, with Wyms being held in the Men’s Central Jail. But then Vincent stepped in and offered his services pro bono. His first order of business was to ask for and receive a competency evaluation of his client. This had the effect of slowing the case down even further as Wyms was carted off to the state hospital in Camarillo for a ninety-day psych evaluation.

  That evaluation period was over and the reports were now in. All of the doctors who examined, tested and talked to Wyms in Camarillo had agreed that he was competent and ready to stand trial.

  In the hearing scheduled before Judge Mark Friedman at two, a trial date would be set and the case clock would begin to tick again. To me it was all a formality. One read of the case documents and I knew there would be no trial. What the day’s hearing would do was set the time period I would have to negotiate a plea agreement for my client.

  It was a cut-and-dried case. Wyms would enter a plea and probably face a year or two of incarceration and mental-health counseling. The only question I got from my survey of the file was why Vincent had taken the case in the first place. It didn’t fall into line with the kinds of cases he usually handled, with paying or higher-profile clients. There didn’t seem to be much of a challenge to the case either. It was routine and Wyms’s crime wasn’t even unusual. Was it simply a case Jerry took on to satisfy a need for pro bono work? It seemed to me if that was the case that Vincent could have found something more interesting, which would pay off in other ways, such as publicity. The Wyms case had initially drawn media attention because of the public spectacle in the park. But when it came to trial or disposition of the case, it would likely fly well below the media radar.

  My next thought was to suspect that there was a connection to the Elliot case. Vincent had found some sort of link.

  But on first read I couldn’t nail it down. There were two general connections in that the Wyms incident had happened less than twelve hours before the beach house murders and both crimes had occurred in the Sheriff’s Department’s Malibu district. But those connections didn’t hold up to further scrutiny. In terms of topography they weren’t remotely connected. The murders were on the beach and the Wyms shooting spree took place far inland, in the county park on the other side of the mountains. As far as I could recall, none of the names in the Wyms file were mentioned in the Elliot materials I had reviewed. The Wyms incident happened on the night shift; the Elliot murders on the day shift.

  I couldn’t nail down any specific connection and in great frustration closed the file with the question unanswered. I checked my watch and saw I had to get back to the CCB if I wanted time to meet my client in lockup before the two o’clock hearing.

  I called Patrick to come get me, paid for lunch and stepped out to the curb. I was on my cell, talking with Lorna, when the Lincoln pulled up and I jumped into the back.

  “Has Cisco met with Carlin yet?” I asked her.

  “No, that’s at two.”

  “Have Cisco ask him about the Wyms case, too.”

  “Okay, what about it?”

  “Ask him why Vincent even took it.”

  “You think they’re connected? Elliot and Wyms?”

  “I think it but I don’t see it.”

  “Okay, I’ll tell him.”

  “Anything else going on?”

  “Not at the moment. You’re getting a lot of calls from the media. Who’s this guy Jack McEvoy?”

  The name rang a bell but I couldn’t place it.

  “I don’t know. Who is he?”

  “He works at the Times. He called up all huffy about not hearing from you, saying you had an exclusive deal with him.”

  Now I remembered. The two-way street.

  “Don’t worry about him. I haven’t heard from him either. What else?”

  “Court TV wants to sit down and talk about Elliot. They’re going to carry live coverage throughout the trial, making it their feature, and so they’re hoping to get daily commentary from you at the end of court each day.”

  “What do you think, Lorna?”

  “I think it’s like free national advertising. You better do it. They told me they’re giving the trial its own logo wrap at the bottom of the screen. ‘Murder in Malibu,’ they’re calling it.”

  “Then, set it up. What else?”

  “Well, while we’re on the subject, I got a notice a week ago that your bus bench contract expires at the end of the month. I was just going to let it go because there was no money, but now you’re back and you’ve got money. Should we renew?”

  For the past six years I had advertised on bus benches strategically located in high-crime and -traffic locations around the city. Although I had dropped out for the past year, the benches still spawned a steady stream of calls, all of which Lorna deferred or referred.

  “That’s a two-year contract, right?”

  “Yes.”

  I made a quick decision.

  “Okay, renew it. Anything else?”

  “That’s it from here. Oh, wait. One other thing. The landlord for the building came in today. Called herself the leasing agent, which is just a fancy way of saying landlord. She wants to know if we’re going to keep the office. Jerry’s death is a lease breaker if we want it to be. I got the feeling there’s a waiting list on the building and this is an opportunity to jack the rent up for the next lawyer who comes in here.”

  I looked out the window of the Lincoln as we cruised across the 101 overpass and back into the civic center area. I could see the newly built Catholic cathedral and past that, the waving steel skin of the Disney Concert Hall. It caught the sunlight and took on a warm orange glow.

  “I don’t know, Lorna, I like working from the backseat here. It’s never boring. What d
o you think?”

  “I’m not particularly fond of putting on makeup every morning.”

  Meaning she liked working out of her condo more than she liked getting ready and driving downtown to an office each day. As usual, we were on the same page.

  “Something to think about,” I said. “No makeup. No office overhead. No fighting for a spot in the parking garage.”

  She didn’t respond. It was going to be my call. I looked ahead and saw we were a block from my drop-off point in front of the CCB.

  “Let’s talk about it later,” I said. “I gotta jump out.”

  “Okay, Mickey. Be safe.”

  “You, too.”

  Twenty-six

  Eli Wyms was still doped up from the three months he’d spent in Camarillo. He’d been sent back to county with a prescription for a drug therapy that wasn’t going to help me defend him, let alone help him answer any questions about possible connections to the murders on the beach. It took me less than two minutes in courtside lockup to grasp the situation and to decide to submit a motion to Judge Friedman, requesting that all drug therapy be halted. I went back to the courtroom and found Joanne Giorgetti at her place at the prosecution table. The hearing was scheduled to start in five minutes.

  She was writing something on the inside flap of a file when I walked up to the table. Without looking up she somehow knew it was me.

  “You want a continuance, don’t you?”

  “And a cease-and-desist on the drugs. The guy’s a zombie.”

  She stopped writing and looked up at me.

  “Considering he was potshotting my deputies, I’m not sure I object to his being in that condition.”

  “But Joanne, I’ve got to be able to ask the guy basic questions in order to defend him.”

  “Really?”

  She said it with a smile but the point was taken. I shrugged and crouched down so we were on an even eye line.

  “You’re right, I don’t think we’re talking about a trial here,” I said. “I’d be happy to listen to any offers.”

  “Your client shot at an occupied sheriff’s car. The state is interested in sending a message on this one. We don’t like people doing that.”

  She folded her arms to signal the state’s unwillingness to compromise on this. She was an attractive and athletically built woman. She drummed her fingers on one of her biceps and I couldn’t help but notice the red fingernail polish. As long as I could remember dealing with Joanne Giorgetti, her nails were always painted bloodred. She did more than represent the state. She represented cops who had been shot at, assaulted, ambushed and spit on. And she wanted the blood of every miscreant who had the bad luck to be prosecuted by her.

  “I would argue that my client, panicked as he was by the coyotes, was shooting at the light on the car, not into the car. Your own documents say he was an expert marksman in the U.S. Army. If he wanted to shoot the deputy, he could have. But he didn’t.”

  “He was discharged from the army fifteen years ago, Mickey.”

  “Right, but some skills never go away. Like riding a bike.”

  “Well, that’s an argument you could surely make to the jury.”

  My knees were about to give out. I reached over to one of the chairs at the defense table, wheeled it over and sat down.

  “Sure, I can make that argument but it is probably in the state’s best interest to bring this case to a close, get Mr. Wyms off the street and into some sort of therapy that will help prevent this from ever happening again. So what do you say? Should we go off into a corner someplace and work this out, or go at it in front of a jury?”

  She thought for a moment before responding. It was the classic prosecutor’s dilemma. It was a case she could easily win. She had to decide whether to pad her stats or do what might be the right thing.

  “As long as I get to pick the corner.”

  “That’s fine with me.”

  “Okay, I won’t oppose a continuance if you make the motion.”

  “Sounds good, Joanne. What about the drug therapy?”

  “I don’t want this guy acting out again, even in Men’s Central.”

  “Look, wait till they bring him out. You’ll see, he’s a zombie. You don’t want this to go down and then have him challenge the deal because the state made him incompetent to make a decision. Let’s get his head clear, do the deal and then you can have them pump him up with whatever you want.”

  She thought about it, saw the logic and finally nodded.

  “But if he acts out in jail one time, I’m going to blame you and take it out on him.”

  I laughed. The idea of blaming me was absurd.

  “Whatever.”

  I got up and started to push the chair back to the defense table. But then I turned back to the prosecutor.

  “Joanne, let me ask you something else. Why did Jerry Vincent take on this case?”

  She shrugged and shook her head.

  “I don’t know.”

  “Well, did it surprise you?”

  “Sure. It was kind of strange, him showing up. I knew him from way back when, you know?”

  Meaning when he was a prosecutor.

  “Yeah, so what happened?”

  “One day—a few months ago—I got notice of a competency motion on Wyms, and Jerry’s name was on it. I called him up and said, ‘What the hell,’ you know? ‘You don’t even call to say, I’m taking over the case?’ And he just said he wanted to get some pro bono in and asked the PD for a case. But I know Angel Romero, the PD who had the case originally. A couple months back, I ran into him on one of the floors and he asked me what was happening on Wyms. And in the course of the conversation, he told me that Jerry didn’t just come in asking for a PB referral. He went to Wyms first in Men’s Central, signed him up and then came in and told Angel to turn over the file.”

  “Why do you think he took the case?”

  I’ve learned over the years that sometimes if you ask the same question more than once you get different responses.

  “I don’t know. I specifically asked him that and he didn’t really answer. He changed the subject to something else and it was all kind of awkward. I remember thinking there was something else here, like maybe he had a connection to Wyms. But then when he sent him off to Camarillo, I knew he wasn’t doing the guy any favors.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Look, you just spent a couple hours with the case and you know how it’s going to go. This is a plea. Jail time, counseling and supervision. That’s what it was before he was sent to Camarillo. So Wyms’s time there wasn’t really necessary. Jerry just prolonged the inevitable.”

  I nodded. She was right. Sending a client to the psych ward at Camarillo wasn’t doing him any favors. The mystery case was getting more mysterious. Only, my client was in no condition to tell me why. His lawyer—Vincent—had kept him drugged up and locked away for three months.

  “Okay, Joanne. Thanks. Let’s—”

  I was interrupted by the clerk, who called court into session, and I looked up to see Judge Friedman taking the bench.

  Twenty-seven

  Angel Romero was one of those human interest stories you read in the paper every now and then. The story about the gangbanger who grew up hard on the streets of East L.A. but fought his way through to an education and even law school, then turned around and gave back to the community. Angel’s way to give back was to go into the Public Defenders Office and represent the underdogs of society. He was a lifer in the PD and had seen many young lawyers—myself included—come and go on their way to private practice and the supposed big bucks that came with it.

  After the Wyms hearing—in which the judge granted the motion to continue in order to give Giorgetti and me time to work out a plea—I went down to the PD’s office on the tenth floor and asked for Romero. I knew he was a working lawyer, not a supervisor, and that most likely meant he was in a courtroom somewhere in the building. The receptionist typed something into her computer and looked
at the screen.

  “Department one-twenty-four,” she said.

  “Thank you,” I said.

  Department 124 was Judge Champagne’s courtroom on the thirteenth floor, the same floor I had just come from. But that was life in the CCB. It seemed to run in circles. I took the elevator back up and walked down the hall to 124, powering my phone down as I approached the double doors. Court was in session and Romero was in front of the judge, arguing a motion to reduce bail. I slid into the back row of the gallery and hoped for a quick ruling so I could get to Romero without a long wait.

  My ears perked up when I heard Romero mention his client by name, calling him Mr. Scales. I slid further down the bench so I had a better visual angle on the defendant sitting next to Romero. He was a white guy in an orange jail jumpsuit. When I saw his profile, I knew it was Sam Scales, a con man and former client. The last I remembered of Scales, he had gone off to prison on a plea deal I’d obtained for him. That was three years ago. He obviously had gotten out and gotten right back into trouble—only this time he hadn’t called me.

  After Romero finished his bail argument, the prosecutor stood up and vigorously opposed bail, outlining in his argument the new charges against Scales. When I had represented him, he had been accused in a credit-card fraud in which he ripped off people donating to a tsunami relief organization. This time it was worse. He was once more charged with fraud but in this case the victims were the widows of military servicemen killed in Iraq. I shook my head and almost smiled. I was glad Sam hadn’t called me. The public defender could have him.

  Judge Champagne ruled quickly after the prosecutor finished. She called Scales a predator and a menace to society and kept his bail at a million dollars. She noted that if she’d been asked, she probably would have raised it. It was then that I remembered it had been Judge Champagne who had sentenced Scales in the earlier fraud. There was nothing worse for a defendant than coming back and facing the same judge for another crime. It was almost as if the judges took the failings of the justice system personally.