“Why?”
“Who knows? They couldn’t go in or they would risk exposing the surveillance. But that’s not the real news. The real news is, last night he met with a couple of guys at the Townhouse in Venice and then went out to a car in one of the beach lots. One of the guys took something wrapped in a towel out of the trunk and gave it to him.”
“A gun?”
Bosch shrugged.
“Whatever it was, they never saw, but through the car’s plates they IDed one of the two guys. Marshall Daniels. He was in San Quentin in the nineties—same time as Jessup.”
I was now catching some of the tension and urgency that was coming off Bosch.
“They could’ve known each other. What was Daniels up there for?”
“Drugs and weapons.”
I checked my watch. I needed to be back in court.
“Then we have to assume Jessup has a weapon. We could violate his OR right now for associating with a convicted felon. Do they have pictures of Jessup and Daniels together?”
“They have photos but I am not sure we want to do that.”
“If he’s got a gun… Do you trust the SIS to stop him before he makes a move or does some damage?”
“I do, but it would help if we knew what the move was.”
We stepped out into the hallway and saw no sign of any jurors or anyone else from the trial. Everybody was back in court but me.
“We’ll talk about this later. I have to get back into court or the judge will jump on my ass next. I’m not like Royce. I can’t afford a contempt hearing just to make a point with the jury. Go get Atwater and bring her in.”
I hurried back to Department 112 and rudely pushed around a couple of the courthouse gadflies who were moving slowly through the door. Judge Breitman had not waited for me. I saw everyone but me in place and the jury was being seated. I moved up the aisle and through the gate and slipped into the seat next to Maggie.
“That was close,” she whispered. “I think the judge was hoping to even things up by holding you in contempt.”
“Yeah, well, she may still.”
The judge turned away from the jurors and noticed me at the prosecution table.
“Well, thank you for joining us this afternoon, Mr. Haller. Did you have a nice excursion?”
I stood.
“My apologies, Your Honor. I had a personal matter come up and it took far longer than I expected it would.”
She opened her mouth to deliver a rebuke but then paused as she realized I had thrown her words from the morning’s delay—her delay—right back at her.
“Just call your next witness, Counselor,” she said curtly.
I called Lisa Atwater to the stand and glanced to the back of the courtroom to see Bosch leading the DNA lab technician down the aisle to the gate. I checked the clock up on the rear wall. My goal was to use up the rest of the day with Atwater’s testimony, bringing her to the nuts and bolts just before we recessed for the day. That might give Royce a whole night to prepare his cross-examination, but I would happily trade that for what I would get out of the deal—every juror going home with knowledge of the unimpeachable evidence that linked Jason Jessup to the murder of Melissa Landy.
As I had asked her to, Atwater had kept her lab coat on when she walked over from the LAPD lab. The light blue jacket gave her a look of competence and professionalism that the rest of her didn’t convey. Atwater was very young—only thirty-one—and had blond hair with a pink stripe down one side, modeling her look after a supercool lab tech on one of the TV crime shows. After meeting her for the first time, I tried to get her to think about losing the pink, but she told me she wouldn’t give up her individuality. The jurors, she said, would have to accept her for who and what she was.
At least the lab coat wasn’t pink.
Atwater identified herself and was sworn in. After she took the witness seat I started asking questions about her educational pedigree and work experience. I spent at least ten more minutes on this than I normally would have, but I kept seeing that ribbon of pink hair and thought I had to do all I could to turn it into a badge of professionalism and accomplishment.
Finally, I got to the crux of her testimony. With me carefully asking the questions, she testified that she had conducted DNA typing and comparison on two completely different evidence samples from the Landy case. I went with the more problematic analysis first.
“Ms. Atwater, can you describe the first DNA assignment you received on the Landy case?”
“Yes, on February fourth I was given a swatch of fabric that had been cut from the dress that the victim had been wearing at the time of her murder.”
“Where did you receive this from?”
“It came from the LAPD’s Property Division, where it had been kept in controlled evidence storage.”
Her answers were carefully rehearsed. She could give no indication that there had been a previous trial in the case or that Jessup had been in prison for the past twenty-four years. To do so would create prejudice against Jessup and trigger a mistrial.
“Why were you sent this swatch of fabric?”
“There was a stain on the fabric that twenty-four years ago had been identified by the LAPD forensics unit as semen. My assignment was to extract DNA and identify it if possible.”
“When you examined this swatch, was there any degradation of the genetic material on it?”
“No, sir. It had been properly preserved.”
“Okay, so you got this swatch of material from Melissa Landy’s dress and you extracted DNA from it. Do I have that right so far?”
“That’s right.”
“What did you do next?”
“I turned the DNA profile into a code and entered it into the CODIS database.”
“What is CODIS?”
“It’s the FBI’s Combined DNA Index System. Think of it as a national clearinghouse of DNA records. All DNA signatures gathered by law enforcement end up here and are available for comparison.”
“So you entered the DNA signature obtained from semen on the dress Melissa Landy wore on the day she was murdered, correct?”
“Correct.”
“Did you get a hit?”
“I did. The profile belonged to her stepfather, Kensington Landy.”
A courtroom is a big space. There is always a low-level current of sound and energy. You can feel it even if you can’t really hear it. People whisper in the gallery, the clerk and deputy handle phone calls, the court reporter touches the keys on her steno machine. But the sound and air went completely out of Department 112 after Lisa Atwater said what she said. I let it ride for a few moments. I knew this would be the lowest point of the case. With that one answer I had, in fact, revealed Jason Jessup’s case. But from this point on, it would all be my case. And Melissa Landy’s case. I wouldn’t forget about her.
“Why was Kensington Landy’s DNA in the CODIS database?” I asked.
“Because California has a law that requires all felony arrest suspects to submit a DNA sample. In two thousand four Mr. Landy was arrested for a hit-and-run accident causing injury. Though he eventually pleaded to lesser charges, it was originally charged as a felony, thus triggering the DNA law upon his booking. His DNA was entered into the system.”
“Okay. Now getting back to the victim’s dress and the semen that was on it. How did you determine that the semen was deposited on the day that Melissa Landy was murdered?”
Atwater seemed confused by the question at first. It was a skilled act.
“I didn’t,” she said. “It is impossible to know exactly when that deposit was made.”
“You mean it could have been on the dress for a week before her death?”
“Yes. There’s no way of knowing.”
“What about a month?”
“It’s possible because there is—”
“What about a year?”
“Again, it is—”
“Objection!”
Royce stood. About time,
I thought.
“Your Honor, how long does this have to go on past the point?”
“Withdrawn, Judge. Mr. Royce is right. We’re well past the point.”
I paused for a moment to underline that Atwater and I would now be moving in a new direction.
“Ms. Atwater, you recently handled a second DNA analysis in regard to the Melissa Landy case, correct?”
“Yes, I did.”
“Can you describe what that entailed?”
Before answering she secured the pink band of hair behind her ear.
“Yes, it was a DNA extraction and comparison of hair specimens. Hair from the victim, Melissa Landy, which was contained in a kit taken at the time of her autopsy and hair recovered from a tow truck operated by the defendant, Jason Jessup.”
“How many hair specimens are we talking about?”
“Ultimately, one of each. Our objective was to extract nuclear DNA, which is available only in the root of a hair sample. Of the specimens we had, there was only one suitable extraction from the hairs recovered from the tow truck. So we compared DNA from the root of that hair to DNA from a hair sample taken from the autopsy kit.”
I walked her through the process, trying to keep the explanations as simple as possible. Just enough to get by, like on TV. I kept one eye on my witness and one on the jury box, making sure everybody was staying plugged in and happy.
Finally, we came out the other end of the techno-genetic tunnel and arrived at Lisa Atwater’s conclusions. She put several color-coded charts and graphs up on the screens and thoroughly explained them. But the bottom line was always the same thing; to feel it, jurors had to hear it. The most important thing a witness brings into a courtroom is her word. After all the charts were displayed, it came down to Atwater’s words.
I turned and looked back at the clock. I was right on schedule. In less than twenty minutes the judge would recess for the evening. I turned back and moved in for the kill.
“Ms. Atwater, do you have any hesitation or doubt at all about the genetic match you have just testified about?”
“No, none whatsoever.”
“Do you believe beyond a doubt that the hair from Melissa Landy is a unique match to the hair specimen obtained from the tow truck the defendant was operating on February sixteenth, nineteen eighty-six?”
“Yes, I do.”
“Is there a quantifiable way of illustrating this match?”
“Yes, as I illustrated earlier, we matched nine out of the thirteen genetic markers in the CODIS protocol. The combination of these nine particular genetic markers occurs in one in one-point-six trillion individuals.”
“Are you saying it is a one-in-one-point-six-trillion chance that the hair found in the tow truck operated by the defendant belonged to someone other than Melissa Landy?”
“You could say it that way, yes.”
“Ms. Atwater, do you happen to know the current population of the world?”
“It’s approaching seven billion.”
“Thank you, Ms. Atwater. I have no further questions at this time.”
I moved to my seat and sat down. Immediately I started stacking files and documents, getting it all ready for the briefcase and the ride home. This day was in the books and I had a long night ahead of me preparing for the next one. The judge didn’t seem to begrudge me finishing ten minutes early. She was shutting down herself and sending the jury home.
“We will continue with the cross-examination of this witness tomorrow. I would like to thank all of you for paying such close attention to today’s testimony. We will be adjourned until nine o’clock sharp tomorrow morning and I once again admonish you not to watch any news program or—”
“Your Honor?”
I looked up from the files. Royce was on his feet.
“Yes, Mr. Royce?”
“My apologies, Judge Breitman, for interrupting. But by my watch, it is only four-fifty and I know that you prefer to get as much testimony as possible in each day. I would like to cross-examine this witness now.”
The judge looked at Atwater, who was still on the witness stand, and then back to Royce.
“Mr. Royce, I would rather you begin your cross tomorrow morning rather than start and then interrupt it after only ten minutes. We don’t go past five o’clock with the jury. That is a rule I will not break.”
“I understand, Judge. But I am not planning to interrupt it. I will be finished with this witness by five o’clock and then she will not be required to return tomorrow.”
The judge stared at Royce for a long moment, a disbelieving look on her face.
“Mr. Royce, Ms. Atwater is one of the prosecution’s key witnesses. Are you telling me you only need five minutes for cross-examination?”
“Well, of course it depends on the length of her answers, but I have only a few questions, Your Honor.”
“Very well, then. You may proceed. Ms. Atwater, you remain under oath.”
Royce moved to the lectern and I was as confused as the judge about the defense’s maneuver. I had expected Royce to take most of the next morning on cross. This had to be a trick. He had a DNA expert on his own witness list but I would never give up a shot at the prosecution’s witness.
“Ms. Atwater,” Royce said, “did all of the testing and typing and extracting you conducted on the hair specimen from the tow truck tell you how the specimen got inside that truck?”
To buy time Atwater asked Royce to repeat the question. But even upon hearing it a second time, she did not answer until the judge intervened.
“Ms. Atwater, can you answer the question?” Breitman asked.
“Uh, yes, I’m sorry. My answer is no, the lab work I conducted had nothing to do with determining how the hair specimen found its way into the tow truck. That was not my responsibility.”
“Thank you,” Royce said. “So to make it crystal clear, you cannot tell the jury how that hair—which you have capably identified as belonging to the victim—got inside the truck or who put it there, isn’t that right?”
I stood.
“Objection. Assumes facts not in evidence.”
“Sustained. Would you like to rephrase, Mr. Royce?”
“Thank you, Your Honor. Ms. Atwater, you have no idea—other than what you were perhaps told—how the hair you tested found its way into the tow truck, correct?”
“That would be correct, yes.”
“So you can identify the hair as Melissa Landy’s but you cannot testify with the same sureness as to how it ended up in the tow truck, correct?”
I stood up again.
“Objection,” I said. “Asked and answered.”
“I think I will let the witness answer,” Breitman said. “Ms. Atwater?”
“Yes, that is correct,” Atwater said. “I cannot testify about anything regarding how the hair happened to end up in the truck.”
“Then I have no further questions. Thank you.”
I turned back and looked at the clock. I had two minutes. If I wanted to get the jury back on track I had to think of something quick.
“Any redirect, Mr. Haller?” the judge asked.
“One moment, Your Honor.”
I turned and leaned toward Maggie to whisper.
“What do I do?”
“Nothing,” she whispered back. “Let it go or you might make it worse. You made your points. He made his. Yours are more important—you put Melissa inside his truck. Leave it there.”
Something told me not to leave it as is but my mind was a blank. I couldn’t think of a question derived from Royce’s cross that would get the jury off his point and back onto mine.
“Mr. Haller?” the judge said impatiently.
I gave it up.
“No further questions at this time, Your Honor.”
“Very well, then, we will adjourn for the day. Court will reconvene at nine A.M. tomorrow and I admonish the jurors not to read newspaper accounts about this trial or view television reports or talk to family or friends about the
case. I hope everyone has a good night.”
With that the jury stood and began to file out of the box. I casually glanced over at the defense table and saw Royce being congratulated by Jessup. They were all smiles. I felt a hollow in my stomach the size of a baseball. It was as though I had played it to near perfection all day long—for almost six hours of testimony—and then in the last five minutes managed to let the last out in the ninth go right between my legs.
I sat still and waited until Royce and Jessup and everybody else had left the courtroom.
“You coming?” Maggie said from behind me.
“In a minute. How about I meet you back at the office?”
“Let’s walk back together.”
“I’m not good company, Mags.”
“Haller, get over it. You had a great day. We had a great day. He was good for five minutes and the jury knows that.”
“Okay. I’ll meet you there in a little bit.”
She gave up and I heard her leave. After a few minutes I reached over to the top file on the stack in front of me and opened it up halfway. A school photo of Melissa Landy was clipped inside the folder. Smiling at the camera. She looked nothing like my daughter but she made me think of Hayley.
I made a silent vow not to let Royce outsmart me again.
A few moments later, someone turned out the lights.
Thirty-two
Tuesday, April 6, 10:15 P.M.
Bosch stood by the swing set planted in the sand a quarter mile south of the Santa Monica Pier. The black water of the Pacific to his left was alive with the dancing reflection of light and color from the Ferris wheel at the end of the boardwalk. The amusement park had closed fifteen minutes earlier but the light show would go on through the night, an electronic display of ever-changing patterns on the big wheel that was mesmerizing in the cold darkness.
Harry raised his phone and called the SIS dispatcher. He had checked in earlier and set things up.
“It’s Bosch again. How’s our boy?”
“He appears to be tucked in for the night. You must’ve worn him out in court today, Bosch. On the way home from the CCB he went to Ralphs to pick up some groceries and then straight home, where he’s been ever since. First night in five he hasn’t been out and about at this time.”
The Lincoln Lawyer Collection Page 102