The Gods of Guilt (Mickey Haller 5) (27 page)

It was true. Many judges were already fronts for the state. But even those who weren’t would be hard-pressed to allow me to present the defense I was envisioning. The true battleground of the case would be in the hearings before a single juror was seated. Unless I came up with another strategy to get my witnesses in.

I decided not to think about it for now.

“So how are you making out?” I asked.

“I’m getting close to connecting Lankford and Marco,” Cisco said.

That was good news.

“Tell me about it.”

“It’s a little tentative now, so give me a day on it. It involves a double murder in Glendale. A drug rip-off going back ten years. I’m waiting on records—it’s a cold case, so not a problem getting the docs.”

“Let me know when you know. You heard from Bullocks today?”

“Not today.”

“She—”

“Hey, boss!” Earl said from the front seat.

I looked at his eyes in the mirror. They weren’t on me. They were on something behind us. Something that was scaring him.

“What is—”

The impact was loud and hard as something with what felt like the power of a train plowed into us from behind. I was belted in, but even so, my body was hurled forward into the fold-down tabletop affixed to the back of the seat in front of me, and then thrown against the door as the Lincoln went into a sideways slide to the right. Fighting the centrifugal force of the slide I managed to raise my head up enough to look over the right side doorsill. I saw the freeway guardrail a microsecond before we hit it flush and our momentum took us over it.

The car started tumbling down a concrete embankment, the crunching of steel and shattering of glass sharp in my ears as it flipped once, then twice, then three times. I was whipped around like a rag doll until the car finally came to a metal-grinding stop upside down and at the forty-five-degree angle of the embankment.

I don’t know how long I was out, but when I opened my eyes I realized I was hanging upside down by the seat belt. An old man on his hands and knees was staring at me through the broken window on the high side of the car.

“Mister, you all right?” the man said. “That was a bad one.”

I didn’t answer. I reached to the seat belt and pushed the release button without thinking. I crashed down to the ceiling of the car, embedding broken glass in my cheek and aggravating a dozen sore spots on my body.

I groaned and slowly tried to raise myself, looking to the front seat to check on Earl.

“Earl?”

He wasn’t there.

“Mister, I better get you out of there. I smell gas. I think the tank ruptured.”

I turned back to my would-be rescuer.

“Where’s Earl?”

He shook his head.

“Is Earl your chauffeur?”

“Yeah. Where is he?”

I reached up to pull a piece of glass out of my cheek. I could feel the blood on my fingers.

“He got thrown out,” the rescuer said. “He’s lying over there. He looks bad. I don’t think—well, the paramedics will be able to tell. I called them. I called nine-one-one and they’re coming.”

He looked at me and nodded.

“Thank you,” I said.

“Here, let me help you out. This thing could catch on fire.”

It wasn’t until I crawled out and struggled to my feet, hand on my rescuer’s shoulder, that I saw Earl lying facedown on the embankment above the Lincoln. Blood was running down the concrete in a thick stream from his neck and face area.

“You got lucky,” the man said.

“Yeah, I’m Mr. Lucky,” I said.

I took my hand off his shoulder and leaned forward until my hands reached the concrete. I crawled up the embankment to Earl. I knew right away that he was dead. He must’ve been thrown clear and then the car rolled over him. His skull was crushed and his face was misshapen and ghastly to look at.

I sat down on the concrete next to him and looked away. I saw the rescuer looking up at me, an expression of horror on his face. I knew my nose was broken and blood was dripping down both sides of my mouth. I guess I was ghastly to look at as well.

“Did you see what happened?” I asked.

“Yeah, I saw it. It was a red tow truck. The thing hit you like you weren’t even there and then it kept going.”

I nodded and looked down. I saw Earl’s outstretched hand, palm down on the bloody concrete. I put my hand on top of it.

“I’m sorry, Earl,” I said.

MONDAY, JUNE 17

T
he prosecution took eight days to present its case against Andre La Cosse, strategically finishing on a Friday so the jurors would have the whole weekend to consider its case in full before hearing a single word from the defense. Bill Forsythe, the deputy D.A., had been workmanlike in his presentation. Nothing fancy, nothing over the top. He methodically built his case around the videotaped interview of the defendant and attempted to solidly wed it to the physical evidence from the crime scene. On the tape La Cosse said he grabbed Gloria Dayton by the throat during their argument. Forsythe coupled this with testimony from the medical examiner, who said that the hyoid bone in the victim’s neck had been fractured. This coupling was the center of the case, and all other aspects, testimony, and evidence emanated from it like the concentric circles of waves from a stone thrown into a lake.

Yes, Judge Leggoe had allowed the admittance of the damning video, dismissing my motion to suppress the day before the start of jury selection with the single comment that the defense had failed to show that the police had used coercive tactics or had operated in bad faith in any way during the interview. The ruling was not unexpected and I immediately chose to see the silver lining in it; I now believed I had the first solid grounds for appeal should the verdict ultimately go against my client.

Through the video Forsythe gave the jury motive and opportunity, using the defendant’s own words to establish them. In my many trials over nearly twenty-five years as a practicing attorney I had found nothing more difficult than undoing the damage inflicted upon defendants by their own words. So was the case here. Jurors always want to hear from the defendants, whether in direct testimony, videotape, or audiotape. It is in the instinctual interpretation of voice and personality that we form our judgments of others. Nothing beats that. Not fingerprints, not DNA, not the pointed finger of an eyewitness.

Forsythe threw only one curve ball at me, but it was a good one. His final witness was another escort for whom La Cosse had formerly provided digital services and management. The prosecutor claimed that he had come forward only the day before after learning of the trial for the first time while reading the newspaper. I argued against his being allowed to testify, accusing the state of sandbagging, but to no avail. Leggoe said testimony of prior bad acts of a similar nature was admissible and allowed Forsythe to put him on the stand.

Brian “Brandi” Goodrich was a small man no more than five three. He wore tight stonewashed jeans and a lavender polo shirt on the witness stand. He testified that he was a transvestite who worked as an escort managed by Andre La Cosse. He testified that Andre had once choked him into unconsciousness when he thought Goodrich was withholding money from him. When Goodrich came to, he was handcuffed to a floor-to-ceiling pole in his living room and he watched helplessly while La Cosse ransacked his home looking for the missing cash. Brandi brought all the usual histrionics to the stand with him—he tearfully recounted that he had feared for his life and felt lucky he hadn’t been killed.

At the defense table, I leaned to Andre and smiled and shook my head as though this witness was just a nuisance and not worth taking seriously. But what I whispered to him wasn’t so light-hearted.

“I need to know right now, did this happen? And don’t hang me out there with a lie, Andre.”

He hesitated, then leaned in close to whisper back.

“He’s exaggerating. I handcuffed him first to this stripper pole he had in the living room so I could search the place. I didn’t choke him out. I grabbed him by the neck one time so he would look at me and answer my questions. He was never unconscious and it didn’t even leave a mark. He went to work that night.”

“He didn’t quit or go with someone else?”

“He didn’t quit for six months. Not until he found a sugar daddy.”

I leaned back away from Andre and waited for Forsythe to finish his direct. When it was my turn, I countered initially with a few questions I hoped would remind the jurors that Brandi was a prostitute and that he had never made any report of this near-death experience to the police.

“Which hospital did you go to to have your neck treated?” I asked.

“I didn’t go to the hospital,” he answered.

“I see. So the hyoid bone in your neck was not crushed as it was with the victim of this case?”

“I don’t know about the specific injuries in this case.”

“Of course not. But you say you were choked into unconsciousness by the defendant and you never went to the police or to seek medical attention.”

“I was just happy to be alive.”

“And to work, too, correct?”

“I don’t understand the question.”

“You went to work as an escort the same night after this supposed life-and-death struggle took place, didn’t you?”

“I don’t remember that.”

“If I produced Mr. La Cosse’s business records regarding his bookings for you as a prostitute, would that help you remember?”

“If I worked that night, it was only because he made me and threatened me if I didn’t.”

“Okay, let’s go back to the alleged incident. Did the defendant use one hand or two?”

“Both hands.”

“You’re a grown man, did you defend yourself?”

“I tried, but he’s a lot bigger than me.”

“You said you then woke up handcuffed to a pole. Where were you when he allegedly choked you into unconsciousness?”

“He grabbed me from behind as soon as I let him in the apartment.”

“So he choked you from behind then?”

“Yes, sort of.”

“What do you mean, ‘sort of’? Did he choke you or not?”

“He put his arm around my neck from behind and tightened it and I tried to fight because I thought he was going to kill me. But I blacked out.”

“So why did you just testify that he used two hands to choke you?”

“Well, ’cause he did. Hands and arms.”

I let that hang out there for a few moments for the jury to consider. I thought I had successfully dented Goodrich’s credibility in a few places. I decided I should get out while I was ahead and took one last shot in the dark. It was a calculated risk, but I operate under the belief that voluntary witnesses usually want something in return. In this case, Goodrich obviously wanted revenge, but I had a hunch there was something more.

“Mr. Goodrich, are you currently facing any criminal charges, misdemeanor or felony? Anything at all?”

Goodrich’s eyes flicked toward the prosecution table for a split second.

“In Los Angeles County? No.”

“In any county anywhere, Mr. Goodrich.”

Goodrich reluctantly revealed that he had a solicitation case pending in Orange County but denied he was testifying in exchange for help with that.

“No further questions,” I said, my voice dripping with disdain.

Forsythe tried to clean things up on redirect, hammering home that he had made no overture or promise to do anything to help Goodrich in Orange County.

Goodrich was allowed to step down after that. I felt I had gotten a few good swings in, but still, the damage was done. Through the witness the prosecution had added a history of similar actions to the solid pillars of motive and opportunity already established. Forsythe’s case was complete then and he rested it at four p.m. Friday, guaranteeing me a weekend of fitful sleep and panicked preparation.

Now it was Monday and it would soon be my turn in front of the jury. My task would be clear. To undo what Forsythe had done. To change the minds of the twelve jurors. In past trials my goal had been to change just one mind. In most cases, hanging a jury is as good as a not-guilty verdict. The DA often chooses not to retry and to soften its stance on a disposition. The case is a sick dog and it needs to be put down as quickly and as smoothly as possible. In the defense trenches that is a victory. But not this time. Not with Andre La Cosse. I was convinced that my client was many things but not a killer. I felt certain that he was innocent of the charges, and so I needed all twelve of the gods of guilt to smile upon me on the day of the verdict.

I sat at the defense table, waiting for the deputies to bring La Cosse in from lockup. Those of us in the courtroom had already been alerted that the bus carrying him from Men’s Central was delayed in traffic. Once the defendant arrived the judge would come out from chambers and the defense’s case would begin.

I passed the time by studying a page of notes I had jotted down for my opening statement. I had reserved the opener at the start of the trial, exercising my option to address the jury before the presentation of the defense. This is often a risky move because it means the jurors may go several days before hearing any sort of counterargument to the prosecution’s theory of the case and presentation of evidence.

Forsythe gave his opening statement to the jury twelve days earlier. So much time had passed, it would seem that the state’s side was deeply and unalterably entrenched in the minds of the twelve. But I also felt that the jurors had to be dying to finally hear something from the defense, to hear the response to Forsythe, the video, and the scientific and physical evidence. They would start to get all of that today.

At last, at nine forty, La Cosse was brought through the lockup door and into the courtroom. I turned and watched as the deputies led him to the defense table, removed the hip shackles, and sat him down next to me. He was wearing the second suit I had bought for him. I wanted him to have a different look than he’d had last week as we started the defense. Both suits had come off the rack in a two-for-one deal at Men’s Wearhouse. Lorna chose them after we’d checked out La Cosse’s own clothing and found nothing that presented the conservative, business-like appearance I wanted him to have in court. But the new suits did little to disguise his ongoing physical decline. He looked like someone suffering in the latter stages of terminal cancer. His weight loss had gone unchecked during his six-plus months of incarceration. He was gaunt, had developed rashes on his arms and neck in reaction to the industrial detergent used in the jail laundry, and his posture at the defense table made him look like an old man. I constantly had to tell him to sit up straight because the jury was watching.