“Judge, first of all, I am in complete agreement. I want to get this thing to trial so I can blow the district attorney here right out of the water. I am an innocent man being persecuted and prosecuted for something I did not do. I don’t want to spend a single extra day as the accused, sir. I loved my wife and I’ll miss her forever. I didn’t kill her and it pierces my heart when I hear the people on TV saying these vile things about me. What hurts the most is knowing that the real killer is out there someplace. The sooner Mr. Haller gets to prove my innocence to the world, the better.”
It was O.J. 101 but the judge studied Elliot and nodded thoughtfully, then turned his attention to the prosecutor.
“Mr. Golantz? What is the state’s view of this?”
The deputy district attorney cleared his throat. The word to describe him was telegenic. He was handsome and dark and his eyes seemed to carry the very wrath of justice in them.
“Your Honor, the state is prepared for trial and has no objection to proceeding on schedule. But I would ask that, if Mr. Elliot is so sure about proceeding without delay, he formally waive any appellate redress in this regard should things not go as he predicts in trial.”
The judge swiveled his chair so that his focus could go back on me.
“What about that, Mr. Haller?”
“Your Honor, I don’t think it’s necessary for my client to waive any protections that might be afforded to—”
“I don’t mind,” Elliot said, cutting in on me. “I’ll waive whatever you damn well please. I want to go to trial.”
I looked sharply at him. He looked at me and shrugged.
“We’re going to win this thing,” he explained.
“You want to take a moment in the corridor, Mr. Haller?” the judge asked.
“Thank you, Judge.”
I got up and signaled Elliot up.
“Come with me.”
We walked out into the short hallway that led to the courtroom. I closed the door behind us. Elliot spoke before I could, underlining the problem.
“Look, I want this thing over and I—”
“Shut up!” I said in a forced whisper.
“What?”
“You heard me. Shut the fuck up. You understand? I am sure you are quite used to talking whenever you want and having everybody listen to every brilliant word you say. But you are not in Hollywood anymore, Walter. You aren’t talking make-believe movies with this week’s mogulito. You understand what I’m saying? This is real life. You don’t speak unless you are spoken to. If you have something to say otherwise, then you whisper it into my ear and if I think it is worth repeating, then I—not you—will say it to the judge. You got it?”
It took Elliot a long time to answer. His face turned dark and I understood that I might be about to lose the franchise. But in that moment I didn’t care. What I had said needed to be said. It was a welcome-to-my-world speech that was long overdue.
“Yes,” he finally said, “I get it.”
“Good, then remember it. Now, let’s go back in there and see if we can avoid giving away your right to appeal if you happen to get convicted because I fucked up by being unprepared for trial.”
“That won’t happen. I have faith in you.”
“I appreciate that, Walter. But the truth is, you have no basis for that faith. And whether you do or don’t, it doesn’t mean we have to give anything away. Let’s go back in now, and let me do the talking. That’s why I get the big bucks, right?”
I clapped him on the shoulder. We went in and sat back down. And Walter didn’t say another word. I argued that he shouldn’t have to give away his right to appellate review just because he wanted the speedy trial he was entitled to. But Judge Stanton sided with Golantz, ruling that if Elliot declined the offer to delay the trial, he couldn’t come complaining after a conviction that his attorney hadn’t had enough time to prepare. Faced with the ruling, Elliot stuck to his guns and declined the delay, as I knew he would. That was okay with me. Under the Byzantine rules of law, almost nothing was safe from appeal. I knew that if necessary, Elliot would still be able to appeal the ruling the judge had just made.
We moved on to what the judge called housekeeping after that. The first order of business was to have both sides sign off on a motion from Court TV to be allowed to broadcast segments of the trial live on its daily programming. Neither I nor Golantz objected. After all, it was free advertising—me for new clients, Golantz to further his political aspirations. And as far as Walter Elliot was concerned, he whispered to me that he wanted the cameras there to record his not-guilty verdict.
Next the judge outlined the schedule for submitting final discovery and witness lists. He gave us until Monday on the discovery materials and the witness lists were due the day after that.
“No exceptions, gentlemen,” he said. “I look dimly on surprise additions after deadline.”
This was not going to be a problem from the defense’s side of the aisle. Vincent had already made two previous discovery filings and there was very little new since then for me to share with the prosecution. Cisco Wojciechowski was doing a good job of keeping me in the dark as to what he was finding out about Rilz. And what I didn’t know I couldn’t put in the discovery file.
When it comes to witnesses, my plan was to give Golantz the usual runaround. I would be submitting a list of potential witnesses, naming every law officer and forensic tech mentioned in the sheriff’s reports. That was standard operating procedure. Golantz would have to puzzle over who I really would call to testify and who was important to the defense’s case.
“All right, guys, I’ve probably got a courtroom full of lawyers out there waiting for me,” Stanton finally said. “Are we clear on everything?”
Golantz and I nodded our heads. I couldn’t help but wonder if either the judge or the prosecutor was the recipient of the bribe. Was I sitting with the man who would turn the case my client’s way? If so, he had done nothing to give himself away. I finished the meeting thinking that Bosch had it all wrong. There was no bribe. There was a hundred-thousand-dollar boat somewhere in a harbor in San Diego or Cabo and it had Jerry Vincent’s name on the title.
“Okay, then,” the judge said. “We’ll get this going next week. We can talk about ground rules Thursday morning. But I want to make it clear right now, I’m going to run this trial like a well-oiled machine. No surprises, no shenanigans, no funny stuff. Again, are we clear?”
Golantz and I both agreed once more that we were clear. But the judge swiveled his chair and looked directly at me. He squinted his eyes in suspicion.
“I’m going to hold you to that,” he said.
It seemed to be a message intended only for me, a message that would never show on the stenographer’s record.
How come, I wondered, it’s always the defense attorney who gets the judicial squint?
Twenty-five
I got to Joanne Giorgetti’s office shortly before the noon break. I knew that getting there a minute after twelve would be too late. The DA’s Offices literally empty during the lunch hour, the inhabitants seeking sunlight, fresh air, and sustenance outside the CCB. I told the receptionist I had an appointment with Giorgetti and she made a call. Then she buzzed the door lock and told me to go back.
Giorgetti had a small, windowless office with most of the floor space taken up by cardboard file boxes. It was the same way in every prosecutor’s office I had ever been in, big or small. She was at her desk but was hidden behind a wall of stacked motions and files. I carefully reached over the wall to shake her hand.
“How’s it going, Joanne?”
“Not bad, Mickey. How about you?”
“I’m doing okay.”
“You just got a lot of cases, I hear.”
“Yeah, quite a few.”
The conversation was stilted. I knew she and Maggie were tight, and there was no telling whether my ex-wife had opened up to her about my difficulties in the past year.
“So you’re here for Wy
ms?”
“That’s right. I didn’t even know I had the case till this morning.”
She handed me a file with an inch-thick stack of documents in it.
“What do you think happened to Jerry’s file?” she asked.
“I think maybe the killer took it.”
She made a cringing face.
“Weird. Why would the killer take this file?”
“Probably unintended. The file was in Jerry’s briefcase along with his laptop, and the killer just took the whole thing.”
“Hmmm.”
“Well, is there anything unusual about this case? Anything that would have made Jerry a target?”
“I don’t think so. Just your usual everyday crazy-with-a-gun sort of thing.”
I nodded.
“Have you heard anything about a federal grand jury taking a look at the state courts?”
She knitted her eyebrows.
“Why would they be looking at this case?”
“I’m not saying they were. I’ve been out of the loop for a while. I was wondering what you’ve heard.”
She shrugged.
“Just the usual rumors on the gossip circuit. Seems like there’s always a federal investigation of something.”
“Yeah.”
I said nothing else, hoping she would fill me in on the rumor. But she didn’t and it was time to move on.
“The hearing today is to set a trial date?” I asked.
“Yes, but I assume you’ll want a continuance so you can get up to speed.”
“Well, let me go look at the file during lunch and I’ll let you know if that’s what the plan is.”
“Okay, Mickey. But just so you know. I won’t oppose a continuance, considering what happened with Jerry.”
“Thanks, CoJo.”
She smiled as I used the name her young basketball players called her by at the Y.
“You seen Maggie lately?” she asked.
“Saw her last night when I went to pick up Hayley. She seems to be doing okay. Have you seen her?”
“Just at basketball practice. But she usually sits there with her nose in a file. We used to go out after with the girls to Hamburger Hamlet but Maggie’s been too busy.”
I nodded. She and Maggie had been foxhole buddies since day one, coming up through the ranks of the prosecutor’s office. Competitors but not competitive with each other. But time goes by and distances work their way into any relationship.
“Well, I’ll take this and look it all over,” I said. “The hearing’s with Friedman at two, right?”
“Yeah, two. I’ll see you then.”
“Thanks for doing this, Joanne.”
“No problem.”
I left the DA’s Office and waited ten minutes to get on an elevator with the lunch crowd. The last one on, I rode down with my face two inches from the door. I hated the elevators more than anything else in the entire Criminal Courts Building.
“Hey, Haller.”
It was a voice from behind me. I didn’t recognize it but it was too crowded for me to turn around to see who it was.
“What?”
“Heard you scored all of Vincent’s cases.”
I wasn’t going to discuss my business in a crowded elevator. I didn’t respond. We finally hit bottom, and the doors spread open. I stepped out and looked back for the person who had spoken.
It was Dan Daly, another defense attorney who was part of a coterie of lawyers who took in Dodgers games occasionally and martinis routinely at Four Green Fields. I had missed the last season of booze and baseball.
“How ya doin’, Dan?”
We shook hands, an indication of how long it had been since we’d seen each other.
“So, who’d you grease?”
He said it with a smile but I could tell there was something behind it. Maybe a dose of jealousy over my scoring the Elliot case. Every lawyer in town knew it was a franchise case. It could pay top dollar for years—first the trial and then the appeals that would come after a conviction.
“Nobody,” I said. “Jerry put me in his will.”
We started walking toward the exit doors. Daly’s ponytail was longer and grayer. But what was most notable was that it was intricately braided. I hadn’t seen that before.
“Then, lucky you,” Daly said. “Let me know if you need a second chair on Elliot.”
“He wants only one lawyer at the table, Dan. He said no dream team.”
“Well, then keep me in mind as a writer in regard to the rest.”
This meant he was available to write appeals on any convictions my new set of clients might incur. Daly had forged a solid reputation as an expert appeals man with a good batting average.
“I’ll do that,” I said. “I’m still reviewing everything.”
“Good enough.”
We came through the doors and I could see the Lincoln at the curb, waiting. Daly was going the other way. I told him I’d keep in touch.
“We miss you at the bar, Mick,” he said over his shoulder.
“I’ll drop by,” I called back.
But I knew I wouldn’t drop by, that I had to stay away from places like that.
I got in the back of the Lincoln—I tell my drivers never to get out and open the door for me—and told Patrick to take me over to Chinese Friends on Broadway. I told him to drop me and go get lunch on his own. I needed to sit and read and didn’t want any conversation.
I got to the restaurant between the first and second waves of patrons and waited no more than five minutes for a table. Wanting to get to work immediately, I ordered a plate of the fried pork chops right away. I knew they would be perfect. They were paper-thin and delicious and I’d be able to eat them with my fingers without taking my eyes off the Wyms documents.
I opened the file Joanne Giorgetti had given me. It contained copies only of what the prosecutor had turned over to Jerry Vincent under the rules of discovery—primarily sheriff’s documents relating to the incident, arrest, and follow-up investigation. Any notes, strategies, or defense documents that Vincent had generated were lost with the original file.
The natural starting point was the arrest report, which included the initial and most basic summary of what had transpired. As is often the case, it started with 911 calls to the county communications-and-dispatch center. Multiple reports of gunfire came in from a neighborhood next to a park in Calabasas. The calls fell under Sheriff’s Department jurisdiction because Calabasas was in an unincorporated area north of Malibu and near the western limits of the county.
The first deputy to respond was listed on the report as Todd Stallworth. He worked the night shift out of the Malibu substation and had been dispatched at 10:21 p.m. to the neighborhood off Las Virgenes Road. From there he was directed into the nearby Malibu Creek State Park, where the shots were being fired. Now hearing shots himself, Stallworth called for backup and drove into the park to investigate.
There were no lights in the rugged mountain park, as it was posted CLOSED AT SUNSET. As Stallworth entered on the main road, the headlights of his patrol car picked up a reflection, and the deputy saw a vehicle parked in a clearing ahead. He put on his spotlight and illuminated a pickup truck with its tailgate down. There was a pyramid of beer cans on the tailgate and what looked like a gun bag with several rifle barrels protruding from it.
Stallworth stopped his car eighty yards from the pickup and decided to wait until backup arrived. He was on the radio to the Malibu station, describing the pickup truck and saying that he was not close enough to read its license plate, when suddenly there was a gunshot and the searchlight located above the side-view mirror exploded with the bullet’s impact. Stallworth killed the rest of the car’s lights and bailed out, crawling into the cover of some bushes that lined the clearing. He used his handheld radio to call for additional backup and the special weapons and tactics team.
A three-hour standoff ensued, with the gunman hidden in the wooded terrain near the clearing. He fired his weapon re
peatedly but apparently his aim was at the sky. No deputies were struck by bullets. No other vehicles were damaged. Finally, a deputy in black SWAT gear worked his way close enough to the pickup truck to read the license plate by using high-powered binoculars equipped with night-vision lenses. The plate number led to the name Eli Wyms, which in turn led to a cell-phone number. The shooter answered on the first ring and a SWAT team negotiator began a conversation.
The shooter was indeed Eli Wyms, a forty-four-year-old housepainter 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 Crossing Page 48