Maggie stopped her summary there. She looked at Bosch and then me and solemnly nodded, giving the dead her moment.
Six
Tuesday, February 16, 4:48 P.M.
Bosch liked watching her and listening to the way she talked. He could tell the case was already under her skin. Maggie McFierce. Of course that was what they called her. More important, it was what she thought about herself. He had been on the case with her for less than a week but he understood this within the first hour of meeting her. She knew the secret. That it wasn’t about code and procedure. It wasn’t about jurisprudence and strategy. It was about taking that dark thing that you knew was out there in the world and bringing it inside. Making it yours. Forging it over an internal fire into something sharp and strong that you could hold in your hands and fight back with.
Relentlessly.
“Jessup asked for a lawyer and gave no further statement,” McPherson said, continuing her summary. “The case was initially built around the older sister’s identification and evidence found in Jessup’s tow truck. Three strands of the victim’s hair found in the seat crack. It was probably where he strangled her.”
“There was nothing on the girl?” Bosch asked. “Nothing from Jessup or the truck?”
“Nothing usable in court. The DNA was found on her dress while it was being examined two days later. It was actually the older girl’s dress. The younger girl borrowed it that day. One small deposit of semen was found on the front hem. It was typed but of course there was no DNA in criminal prosecutions back then. A blood type was determined and it was A-positive, the second-most popular type among humans, accounting for thirty-four percent of the population. Jessup matched but all it did was include him in the suspect pool. The prosecutor decided not to introduce it at trial because it would’ve just given the defense the ability to point out to the jury that the donor pool was more than a million men in Los Angeles County alone.”
Bosch saw her throw another look at her ex-husband. As if he were responsible for the courtroom obfuscations of all defense attorneys everywhere. Harry was starting to get an idea about why their marriage didn’t work out.
“It’s amazing how far we’ve come,” Haller said. “Now they make and break cases on the DNA alone.”
“Moving on,” McPherson said. “The prosecution had the hair evidence and the eyewitness. It also had opportunity—Jessup knew the neighborhood and was working there the morning of the murder. As far as motivation went, their backgrounding of Jessup produced a history of physical abuse by his father and psychopathic behavior. A lot of this came out on the record during the death penalty phase, too. But—and I will say this before you jump on it, Haller—no criminal convictions.”
“And you said no sexual assault?” Bosch asked.
“No evidence of penetration or sexual assault. But this was no doubt a sexually motivated crime. The semen aside, it was a classic control crime. The perpetrator seizing momentary control in a world where he felt he controlled very little. He acted impulsively. At the time, the semen found on her dress was a piece of the same puzzle. It was theorized that he killed the girl and then masturbated, cleaning up after himself but leaving one small deposit of semen on the dress by mistake. The stain had the appearance of a transfer deposit. It wasn’t a drop. It was a smear.”
“The hit we just got on the DNA helps explain that,” Haller said.
“Possibly,” McPherson responded. “But let’s discuss new evidence later. Right now, I’m talking about what they had and what they knew in nineteen eighty-six.”
“Fine. Go on.”
“That’s it on the evidence but not on the prosecution’s case. Two months before trial they get a call from the guy who’s in the cell next to Jessup at County. He—”
“Jailhouse snitches,” Haller said, interrupting. “Never met one who told the truth, never met a prosecutor who didn’t use them anyway.”
“Can I continue?” McPherson asked indignantly.
“Please do,” Haller responded.
“Felix Turner, a repeat drug offender who was in and out of County so often that they made him a jail orderly because he knew the day-to-day operations as well as the deputies. He delivered meals to inmates in high-power lockdown. He tells investigators that Jessup provided him with details that only the killer would know. He was interviewed and he did indeed have details of the crime that were not made public. Like that the victim’s shoes were removed, that she was not sexually assaulted, that he had wiped himself off on her dress.”
“And so they believed him and made him the star witness,” Haller said.
“They believed him and put him on the stand at trial. Not as a star witness. But his testimony was significant. Nevertheless, four years later, the Times comes out with a front-page exposé on Felix ‘The Burner’ Turner, professional jailhouse snitch who had testified for the prosecution in sixteen different cases over a seven-year period, garnering significant reductions in charges and jail time, and other perks like private cells, good jobs and large quantities of cigarettes.”
Bosch remembered the scandal. It rocked the DA’s office in the early nineties and resulted in changes in the use of jailhouse informants as trial witnesses. It was one of many black eyes local law enforcement suffered in the decade.
“Turner was discredited in the newspaper investigation. It said he used a private investigator on the outside to gather information on crimes and then to feed it to him. As you may remember, it changed how we used information that comes to us through the jails.”
“Not enough,” Haller said. “It didn’t end the entire use of jailhouse snitches and it should have.”
“Can we just focus on our case here?” McPherson said, obviously tired of Haller’s posturing.
“Sure,” Haller said. “Let’s focus.”
“Okay, well, by the time the Times came out with all of this, Jessup had long been convicted and was sitting in San Quentin. He of course launched an appeal citing police and prosecutorial misconduct. It went nowhere fast, with every appellate panel agreeing that while the use of Turner as a witness was egregious, his impact on the jury was not enough to have changed the verdict. The rest of the evidence was more than enough to convict.”
“And that was that,” Haller said. “They rubber-stamped it.”
“An interesting note is that Felix Turner was found murdered in West Hollywood a year after the Times exposé,” McPherson said. “The case was never solved.”
“Had it coming as far as I’m concerned,” Haller added.
That brought a pause to the discussion. Bosch used it to steer the meeting back to the evidence and to step in with some questions he had been considering.
“Is the hair evidence still available?”
It took McPherson a moment to drop Felix Turner and go back to the evidence.
“Yes, we still have it,” she said. “This case is twenty-four years old but it was always under challenge. That’s where Jessup and his jailhouse lawyering actually helped us. He was constantly filing writs and appeals. So the trial evidence was never destroyed. Of course, that eventually allowed him to get the DNA analysis off the swatch cut from the dress, but we still have all trial evidence and will be able to use it. He has claimed since day one that the hair in the truck was planted by the police.”
“I don’t think his defense at retrial will be much different from what was presented at his first trial and in his appeals,” Haller said. “The girl made the wrong ID in a prejudicial setting, and from then on it was a rush to judgment. Facing a monumental lack of physical evidence, the police planted hair from the victim in his tow truck. It didn’t play so well before a jury in ’eighty-six, but that was before Rodney King and the riots in ’ninety-two, the O.J. Simpson case, the Rampart scandal and all the other controversies that have engulfed the police department since. It’s probably going to play really well now.”
“So then, what are our chances?” Bosch asked.
Haller looked
across the table at McPherson before answering.
“Based on what we know so far,” he said, “I think I’d have a better chance if I were on the other side of the aisle on this one.”
Bosch saw McPherson’s eyes grow dark.
“Well then, maybe you should cross back over.”
Haller shook his head.
“No, I made a deal. It may have been a bad deal but I’m sticking to it. Besides, it’s not often I get to be on the side of might and right. I could get used to that—even in a losing cause.”
He smiled at his ex-wife but she didn’t return the sentiment.
“What about the sister?” Bosch asked.
McPherson swung her gaze toward him.
“The witness? That’s our second problem. If she’s alive, then she’s thirty-seven now. Finding her is the problem. No help from the parents. Her real father died when she was seven. Her mother committed suicide on her sister’s grave three years after the murder. And the stepfather drank himself into liver failure and died while waiting for a transplant six years ago. I had one of the investigators here do a quick rundown on her on the computer and Sarah Landy’s trail drops off in San Francisco about the same time her stepfather died. That same year she also cleared a probation tail for a controlled substance conviction. Records show she’s been married and divorced twice, arrested multiple times for drugs and petty crimes. And then, like I said, she dropped off the grid. She either died or cleaned up her act. Even if she changed names, her prints would have left a trail if she’d been popped again in the past six years. But there’s nothing.”
“I don’t think we have much of a case if we don’t have her,” Haller said. “We’re going to need a real live person to point the finger across twenty-four years and say he did it.”
“I agree,” McPherson said. “She’s key. The jury will need to hear the woman tell them that as a girl she did not make a mistake. That she was sure then and she is sure now. If we can’t find her and get her to do that, then we have the victim’s hair to go with and that’s about it. They’ll have the DNA and that will trump everything.”
“And we will go down in flames,” Haller said.
McPherson didn’t respond, but she didn’t have to.
“Don’t worry,” Bosch said. “I’ll find her.”
The two lawyers looked at him. It wasn’t a time for empty rah-rah speeches. He meant it.
“If she’s alive,” he said, “I’ll find her.”
“Good,” Haller said. “That’ll be your first priority.”
Bosch took out his key chain and opened the small penknife attached to it. He used it to cut the red seal on the evidence box. He had no idea what would be in the box. The evidence that had been introduced at trial twenty-four years earlier was still in the possession of the DA’s Office. This box would contain other evidence that was gathered but not presented at trial.
Bosch put on a set of latex gloves from his pocket and then opened the box. On top was a paper bag that contained the victim’s dress. It was a surprise. He had assumed that the dress had been introduced at trial, if only for the sympathetic response it would get from the jurors.
Opening the bag brought a musty smell to the room. He lifted the dress out, holding it up by the shoulders. All three of them were silent. Bosch was holding up a dress that a little girl had been wearing when she was murdered. It was blue with a darker blue bow in the front. A six-inch square had been cut out of the front hem, the location of the semen stain.
“Why is this here?” Bosch asked. “Wouldn’t they have presented this at trial?”
Haller said nothing. McPherson leaned forward and looked closely at the dress as she considered a response.
“I think… they didn’t show it because of the cutout. Showing the dress would let the defense ask about the cutout. That would lead to the blood-typing. The prosecution chose not to get into it during the presentation of the evidence. They probably relied on crime scene photos that showed the girl in the dress. They left it to the defense to introduce it and they never did.”
Bosch folded the dress and put it down on the table. Also in the box was a pair of black patent leather shoes. They seemed very small and sad to him. There was a second paper bag, which contained the victim’s underwear and socks. An accompanying lab report stated that the items had been checked for bodily fluids as well as hair and fiber evidence but no such evidence had been found.
At the bottom of the box was a plastic bag containing a silver necklace with a charm on it. He looked at it through the plastic and identified the figure on the charm as Winnie the Pooh. There was also a bag containing a bracelet of aqua-blue beads on an elastic string.
“That’s it,” he said.
“We should have forensics take a fresh look at it all,” McPherson said. “You never know. Technology has advanced quite a bit in twenty-four years.”
“I’ll get it done,” Bosch said.
“By the way,” McPherson asked, “where were the shoes found? They’re not on the victim’s feet in the crime scene photos.”
Bosch looked at the property report that was taped to the inside of the box’s top.
“According to this they were found underneath the body. They must’ve come off in the truck, maybe when she was strangled. The killer threw them into the Dumpster first, then dropped in her body.”
The images conjured by the items in the box had brought a decidedly somber mood to the prosecution team. Bosch started to carefully return everything to the box. He put the envelope containing the necklace in last.
“How old was your daughter when she left Winnie the Pooh behind?” he asked.
Haller and McPherson looked at each other. Haller deferred.
“Five or six,” McPherson said. “Why?”
“Mine, too, I think. But this twelve-year-old had it on her necklace. I wonder why.”
“Maybe because of where it came from,” Haller said. “Hayley—our daughter—still wears a bracelet I got for her about five years ago.”
McPherson looked at him as if challenging the assertion.
“Not all the time,” Haller said quickly. “But on occasion. Sometimes when I pick her up. Maybe the necklace came from her real father before he died.”
A low chime came from McPherson’s computer and she checked her e-mail. She studied the screen for a few moments before speaking.
“This is from John Rivas, who handles afternoon arraignments in Department one hundred. Jessup’s now got a criminal defense attorney and John’s working on getting Jessup on the docket for a bail hearing. He’s coming over on the last bus from City Jail.”
“Who’s the lawyer?” Haller asked.
“You’ll love this. Clever Clive Royce is taking the case pro bono. It’s a referral from the GJP.”
Bosch knew the name. Royce was a high-profile guy who was a media darling who never missed a chance to stand in front of a camera and say all the things he wasn’t allowed to say in court.
“Of course he’s taking it pro bono,” Haller said. “He’ll make it up on the back end. Sound bites and headlines, that’s all Clive cares about.”
“I’ve never gone up against him,” McPherson said. “I can’t wait.”
“Is Jessup actually on the docket?”
“Not yet. But Royce is talking to the clerk. Rivas wants to know if we want him to handle it. He’ll oppose bail.”
“No, we’ll take it,” Haller said. “Let’s go.”
McPherson closed her computer at the same time Bosch put the top back on the evidence box.
“You want to come?” Haller asked him. “Get a look at the enemy?”
“I just spent seven hours with him, remember?”
“I don’t think he was talking about Jessup,” McPherson said.
Bosch nodded.
“No, I’ll pass,” he said. “I’m going to take this stuff over to SID and get to work on tracking down our witness. I’ll let you know when I find her.”
Sev
en
Tuesday, February 16, 5:30 P.M.
Department 100 was the largest courtroom in the CCB and reserved for morning and evening arraignment court, the twin intake points of the local justice system. All those charged with crimes had to be brought before a judge within twenty-four hours, and in the CCB this required a large courtroom with a large gallery section where the families and friends of the accused could sit. The courtroom was used for first appearances after arrest, when the loved ones were still naive about the lengthy, devastating and difficult journey the defendant was embarking upon. At arraignment, it was not unusual to have mom, dad, wife, sister-in-law, aunt, uncle and even a neighbor or two in the courtroom in a show of support for the defendant and outrage at his arrest. In another eighteen months, when the case would grind to a finale at sentencing, the defendant would be lucky to have even dear old mom still in attendance.
The other side of the gate was usually just as crowded, with lawyers of all stripes. Grizzled veterans, bored public defenders, slick cartel reps, wary prosecutors and media hounds all mingled in the well or stood against the glass partition surrounding the prisoner pen and whispered to their clients.
Presiding over this anthill was Judge Malcolm Firestone, who sat with his head down and his sharp shoulders jutting up and closer to his ears with each passing year. His black robe gave them the appearance of folded wings and the overall image was one of Firestone as a vulture waiting impatiently to dine on the bloody detritus of the justice system.
Firestone handled the evening arraignment docket, which started at three P.M. and went as far into the night as the list of detainees required. Consequently, he was a jurist who liked to keep things moving. You had to act fast in one hundred or risk being run over and left behind. In here, justice was an assembly line with a conveyor belt that never stopped turning. Firestone wanted to get home. The lawyers wanted to get home. Everybody wanted to get home.
I entered the courtroom with Maggie and immediately saw the cameras being set up in a six-foot corral to the left side, across the courtroom from the glass pen that housed defendants brought in six at a time. Without the glare of spotlights this time, I saw my friend Sticks setting the legs of the tool that provided his nickname, his tripod. He saw me and gave me a nod and I returned it.
The Lincoln Lawyer Collection Page 81