The Crossing

by Michael Connelly

  I followed a sidewalk across a beautifully manicured lawn on the way to Elliot’s office. My plan for the meeting was threefold. The first order of business was to secure Elliot as a client. That done, I would ask his approval in delaying the trial to give me time to get up to speed and prepare for it. The last part of the plan would be to see if Elliot had any of the pieces missing from the defense case. Parts two and three obviously didn’t matter if I was unsuccessful with part one.

  Walter Elliot’s office was in Bungalow One on the far reaches of the Archway lot. “Bungalows” sounded small but they were big in Hollywood. A sign of status. It was like having your own private home on the lot. And as in any private home, activities inside could be kept secret.

  A Spanish-tiled entranceway led to a step-down living room with a fireplace blowing gas flames on one wall and a mahogany wood bar set up in an opposite corner. I stepped into the middle of the room and looked around and waited. I looked at the painting over the fireplace. It depicted an armored knight on a white steed. The knight had reached up and flipped open the visor on his helmet and his eyes stared out intently. I took a few steps further into the room and realized the eyes had been painted so that they stared at the viewer of the painting from any angle in the room. They followed me.

  “Mr. Haller?”

  I turned as I recognized the voice from the guardhouse phone. Elliot’s gatekeeper, Mrs. Albrecht, had stepped into the room from some unseen entrance. Elegance was the word that came to mind. She was an aging beauty who appeared to take the process in stride. Gray streaked through her un-dyed hair and tiny wrinkles were working their way toward her eyes and mouth, seemingly unchecked by injection or incision. Mrs. Albrecht looked like a woman who liked her own skin. In my experience, this was a rare thing in Hollywood.

  “Mr. Elliot will see you now.”

  I followed her around a corner and down a short hallway to a reception office. She passed an empty desk—hers, I assumed—and pushed open a large door to Walter Elliot’s office.

  Elliot was an overly tanned man with more gray hair sprouting from his open shirt collar than from the top of his head. He sat behind a large glass worktable. No drawers beneath it and no computer on top of it, though paperwork and scripts were spread across it. It didn’t matter that he was facing two counts of murder. He was staying busy. He was working and running Archway the way he always did. Maybe it was on the advice of some Hollywood self-help guru but it wasn’t an unusual behavior or philosophy for the accused. Act like you are innocent and you will be perceived as innocent. Finally, you will become innocent.

  There was a sitting area to the right but he chose to remain behind the worktable. He had dark, piercing eyes that seemed familiar and then I realized I had just been looking at them—the knight on the steed out in the living room was Elliot.

  “Mr. Elliot, this is Mr. Haller,” Mrs. Albrecht said.

  She signaled me to the chair across the table from Elliot. After I sat down Elliot made a dismissive gesture without looking at Mrs. Albrecht and she left the room without another word. Over the years I had represented and been in the company of a couple dozen killers. The one rule is that there are no rules. They come in all sizes and shapes, rich and poor, humble and arrogant, regretful and cold to the bone. The percentages told me that it was most likely Elliot was a killer. That he had calmly dispatched his wife and her lover and arrogantly thought he could and would get away with it. But there was nothing about him on first meeting that told me one way or the other for sure. And that’s the way it always was.

  “What happened to my lawyer?” he asked.

  “Well, for a detailed explanation I would have to refer you to the police. The shorthand is that somebody killed him last night in his car.”

  “And where does that leave me? I’m on trial for my life in a week!”

  That was a slight exaggeration. Jury selection was scheduled in nine days and the DA’s office had not announced that it would seek the death penalty. But it didn’t hurt that he was thinking in such terms.

  “That’s why I’m here, Mr. Elliot. At the moment you are left with me.”

  “And who are you? I’ve never heard of you.”

  “You haven’t heard of me because I make it a practice not to be heard of. Celebrity lawyers bring too much attention to their clients. They feed their own celebrity by offering up their clients. I don’t operate that way.”

  He pursed his lips and nodded. I could tell I had just scored a point.

  “And you’re taking over Vincent’s practice?” he asked.

  “Let me explain it, Mr. Elliot. Jerry Vincent had a one-man shop. Just like I do. On occasion one of us would need help with a case or need another attorney to fill in here and there. We filled that role for each other. If you look at the contract of representation you signed with him, you will find my name in a paragraph with language that allowed Jerry to discuss your case with me and to include me within the bonds of the attorney-client relationship. In other words, Jerry trusted me with his cases. And now that he is gone, I am prepared to carry on in his stead. Earlier today the chief judge of the superior court issued an order placing me in custody of Jerry’s cases. Of course, you ultimately get to choose who represents you at trial. I am very familiar with your case and prepared to continue your legal representation without so much as a hiccup. But, as I said, you must make the choice. I’m only here to tell you your options.”

  Elliot shook his head.

  “I really can’t believe this. We were set for trial next week and I’m not pushing it back. I’ve been waiting five months to clear my name! Do you have any idea what it is like for an innocent man to have to wait and wait and wait for justice? To read all the innuendo and bullshit in the media? To have a prosecutor with his nose up my ass, waiting for me to make the move that gets my bail pulled? Look at this!”

  He stretched out a leg and pulled his left pant leg up to reveal the GPS monitor Judge Holder had ordered him to wear.

  “I want this over!”

  I nodded in a consoling manner and knew that if I told him I wanted to delay his case, I would be looking at a quick dismissal from consideration. I decided I would bring that up in a strategy session after I closed the deal—if I closed the deal.

  “I’ve dealt with many clients wrongly accused,” I lied. “The wait for justice can be almost intolerable. But it also makes the vindication all the more meaningful.”

  Elliot didn’t respond and I didn’t let the silence last long.

  “I spent most of the afternoon reviewing the files and evidence in your case. I’m confident you won’t have to delay the trial, Mr. Elliot. I would be more than prepared to proceed. Another attorney, maybe not. But I would be ready.”

  There it was, my best pitch to him, most of it lies and exaggerations. But I didn’t stop there.

  “I’ve studied the trial strategy Mr. Vincent outlined. I wouldn’t change it but I believe I can improve on it. And I’d be ready to go next week if need be. I think a delay can always be useful, but it won’t be necessary.”

  Elliot nodded and rubbed a finger across his mouth.

  “I would have to think about this,” he said. “I need to talk to some people and have you checked out. Just like I had Vincent checked out before I went with him.”

  I decided to gamble and to try to force Elliot into a quick decision. I didn’t want him checking me out and possibly discovering I had disappeared for a year. That would raise too many questions.

  “It’s a good idea,” I said. “Take your time but don’t take too much time. The longer you wait to decide, the greater the chance that the judge will find it necessary to push the trial back. I know you don’t want that, but in the absence of Mr. Vincent or any attorney of record, the judge is probably already getting nervous and considering it. If you choose me, I will try to get before the judge as soon as possible and tell him we’re still good to go.”

  I stood up and reached into my coat pocket for a card.
I put it down on the glass.

  “Those are all my numbers. Call anytime.”

  I hoped he would tell me to sit back down and we’d start planning for trial. But Elliot just reached over and picked up the card. He seemed to be studying it when I left him. Before I reached the door to the office it opened from the outside and Mrs. Albrecht stood there. She smiled warmly.

  “I’m sure we will be in touch,” she said.

  I had a feeling that she’d heard every word that had been spoken between me and her boss.

  “Thank you, Mrs. Albrecht,” I said. “I certainly hope so.”

  Fourteen

  I found Cisco leaning against the Lincoln, smoking a cigarette.

  “That was fast,” he said.

  I opened the back door in case there were cameras in the parking lot and Elliot was watching me.

  “Look at you with the encouraging word.”

  I got in and he did the same.

  “I’m just saying that it seemed kind of quick,” he said. “How’d it go?”

  “I gave it my best shot. We’ll probably know something soon.”

  “You think he did it?”

  “Probably, but it doesn’t matter. We’ve got other things to worry about.”

  It was hard to go from thinking about a quarter-million-dollar fee to some of the also-rans on Vincent’s client list, but that was the job. I opened my bag and pulled out the other active files. It was time to decide where our next stop was going to be.

  Cisco backed out of the space and started heading toward the arch.

  “Lorna’s waiting to hear,” he said.

  I looked up at him in the mirror.

  “What?”

  “Lorna called me while you were inside. She really wants to know what happened with Elliot.”

  “Don’t worry, I’ll call her. First let me figure out where we’re going.”

  The address of each client—at least the address given upon signing for Vincent’s services—was printed neatly on the outside of each file. I quickly checked through the files, looking for addresses in Hollywood. I finally came across the file belonging to the woman charged with indecent exposure. The client who had come to Vincent’s office earlier to ask for the return of her file.

  “Here we go,” I said. “When you get out of here, head down Melrose to La Brea. We’ve got a client right there. One of the ones who came in today for her file.”

  “Got it.”

  “After that stop, I’ll ride in the front seat. Don’t want you to feel too much like a chauffeur.”

  “It ain’t a bad gig. I think I could get used to it.”

  I got out my phone.

  “Hey, Mick, I gotta tell you something,” Cisco said.

  I took my thumb off the speed-dial button for Lorna.

  “Yeah, what?”

  “I just wanted to tell you myself before you heard it somewhere else. Me and Lorna… we’re gonna get married.”

  I had figured that they were headed in that direction. Lorna and I had been friends for fifteen years before we were married for one. It had been a rebound marriage for me and as ill-advised as anything I had ever done. We ended it when we realized the mistake and somehow managed to remain close. There was no one I trusted more in the world. We were no longer in love but I still loved her and would always protect her.

  “That okay with you, Mick?”

  I looked at Cisco in the rearview.

  “I’m not part of the equation, Cisco.”

  “I know but I want to know if it’s okay with you. Know what I mean?”

  I looked out the window and thought a moment before answering. Then I looked back at him in the mirror.

  “Yes, it’s all right with me. But I’ll tell you something, Cisco. She’s one of the four most important people in my life. You have maybe seventy-five pounds on me—and granted, all of them in muscle. But if you hurt her, I’m going to find a way to hurt you back. That okay with you?”

  He looked away from the mirror to the road ahead. We were in the exit line, moving slowly. The striking writers were massing out on the sidewalk and delaying the people trying to leave the studio.

  “Yeah, Mick, I’m okay with that.”

  We were silent for a while after that as we inched along. Cisco kept glancing at me in the mirror.

  “What?” I finally asked.

  “Well, I got your daughter. That makes one. And then Lorna. I was wondering who the other two were.”

  Before I could answer, the electronic version of the William Tell Overture started to play in my hand. I looked down at my phone. It said PRIVATE CALLER on the screen. I opened it up.

  “Haller.”

  “Please hold for Walter Elliot,” Mrs. Albrecht said.

  Not much time went by before I heard the familiar voice.

  “Mr. Haller?”

  “I’m here. What can I do for you?”

  I felt the stirring of anxiety in my gut. He had decided.

  “Have you noticed something about my case, Mr. Haller?”

  The question caught me off guard.

  “How do you mean?”

  “One lawyer. I have one lawyer, Mr. Haller. You see, I not only must win this case in court but I must also win it in the court of public opinion.”

  “I see,” I said, though I didn’t quite understand the point.

  “In the last ten years I’ve picked a lot of winners. I’m talking about films in which I invested my money. I picked winners because I believe I have an accurate sense of public opinion and taste. I know what people like because I know what they are thinking.”

  “I’m sure you do, sir.”

  “And I think that the public believes that the more guilty you are, the more lawyers you need.”

  He wasn’t wrong about that.

  “So the first thing I said to Mr. Vincent when I hired him was, no dream team, just you. We had a second lawyer on board early on but that was temporary. She served a purpose and was gone. One lawyer, Mr. Haller. That’s how I want it. The best one lawyer I can get.”

  “I under—”

  “I’ve decided, Mr. Haller. You impressed me when you were in here. I would like to engage your services for trial. You will be my one lawyer.”

  I had to calm my voice before answering.

  “I’m glad to hear that. Call me Mickey.”

  “And you can call me Walter. But I insist on one condition before we agree to this arrangement.”

  “What is that?”

  “No delay. We go to trial on schedule. I want to hear you say it.”

  I hesitated. I wanted a delay. But I wanted the case more.

  “We won’t delay,” I said. “We’ll be ready to go next Thursday.”

  “Then, welcome aboard. What do we do next?”

  “Well, I’m still on the lot. I could turn around and come back.”

  “I’m afraid I have meetings until seven and then a screening of our film for the awards season.”

  I thought that his trial and freedom would have trumped his meetings and movies but I let it go. I would educate Walter Elliot and bring him to reality the next time I saw him.

  “Okay, then, for now you give me a fax number and I’ll have my assistant send over a contract. It will have the same fee structure as you had with Jerry Vincent.”

  There was silence and I waited. If he was going to try to knock down the fee, this is when he would do it. But instead he repeated a fax number I could hear Mrs. Albrecht giving him. I wrote it down on the outside of one of the files.

  “What’s tomorrow look like, Walter?”

  “Tomorrow?”

  “Yes, if not tonight, then tomorrow. We need to get started. You don’t want a delay; I want to be even more prepared than I am now. We need to talk and go over things. There are a few gaps in the defense case and I think you can help me fill them in. I could come back to the studio or meet you anywhere else in the afternoon.”

  I heard muffled voices as he conferred with Mrs
. Albrecht.

  “I have a four o’clock open,” he finally said. “Here at the bungalow.”

  “Okay, I’ll be there. And cancel whatever you have at five. We’re going to need at least a couple hours to start.”

  Elliot agreed to the two hours and we were about to end the conversation, when I thought of something else.

  “Walter, I want to see the crime scene. Can I get into the house in Malibu tomorrow sometime before we meet?”

  Again there was a pause.

  “When?”

  “You tell me what will work.”

  Again he covered the phone and I heard his muffled conversation with Mrs. Albrecht. Then he came back on the line with me.

  “How about eleven? I’ll have someone meet you there to let you in.”

  “That’ll work. See you tomorrow, Walter.”

  I closed the phone and looked at Cisco in the mirror.

  “We got him.”

  Cisco hit the Lincoln’s horn in celebration. It was a long blast that made the driver in front of us hold up a fist and send us back the finger. Out in the street the striking writers took the blast as a sign of support from inside the hated studio. I heard a loud cheer go up from the masses.

  Fifteen

  Bosch arrived early the next morning. He was alone. His peace offering was the extra cup of coffee he carried and handed over to me. I don’t drink coffee anymore—trying to avoid any addiction in my life—but I took it from him anyway, thinking that maybe the smell of caffeine would get me going. It was only 7:45 but I had been in Jerry Vincent’s office for more than two hours already.

  I led Bosch back into the file room. He looked more tired than I felt and I was pretty sure he was in the same suit he’d been wearing when I saw him the day before.

  “Long night?” I asked.