The Law of Innocence

by Michael Connelly

  “Yeah? You sure you want to leave this wonderful place?”

  “I need to. Gotta prep my case, and in here it’s not going to happen. Anyway, I’m only telling you because I want you to know that I’ll make good on our deal. I’ll pay till the end of my trial.”

  “That’s mighty white of you.”

  “I mean it. You’ve made me feel safe, Bishop, and I appreciate it. When you get out, you should look me up. I might have something for you. Something legitimate.”

  “Like what?”

  “Like driving. You have a driver’s license?”

  “I could get one.”

  “A real one?”

  “As real as they get, Counselor. Driving what? Who?”

  “Me. I work out of my car and I need a driver. It’s a Lincoln.”

  My previous driver had been working off her son’s debt for my representation and was a week away from completing that when I was arrested. If I got out, I would need a new driver, and I wasn’t blind to what Bishop could bring in terms of intimidation and security in addition to the driving chores.

  I checked the phone bank again. The line was down to two each. I knew I should get over there before it built up to three again. I leaned in close to Bishop and violated my own rule about getting into other people’s business.

  “Bishop, say you were going to break into a garage at somebody’s house. How would you do it?”

  “Whose house?”

  “It’s a hypothetical. Any house. How would you do it?”

  “What makes you think I would break into a house?”

  “I don’t think that. It’s a hypothetical and I’m picking your brain. And it’s breaking into a garage, not the house.”

  “Any windows or a side door?”

  “No, just a double-wide garage door.”

  “It got one of those pop-out handles in case of emergency?”

  “Yeah, but you need a key.”

  “No, you don’t. Those handles you can pop with a flathead.”

  “A screwdriver? You sure?”

  “I’m sure. I knew a guy, that was his specialty. He’d drive around and hit g’rages all day long. Got cars, tools, lawn mowers…all kinds of good shit to sell.”

  I nodded and checked the phone bank. One phone had only one man waiting. I stood up.

  “I have to hit the phone line, Bishop,” I said. “Thanks for the intel.”

  “I got you, man.”

  I walked over to the phones and got behind the single just as the man on the phone in front of him hung up angrily and said, “Fuck you, bitch!”

  He walked away and the next man stepped up to the phone. My wait ended up being less than two minutes, as the man in front of me called collect and the call either went unanswered or the recipient declined to accept the charges. He walked away and I stepped up and put my paperwork down on top of the phone box. I entered Jennifer’s cell phone number for a collect call. While I waited for the electronic voice to tell her that she was receiving a collect call from the county jail, I studied the sign on the wall: ALL CALLS MONITORED.

  Jennifer accepted.

  “Mickey,” she said.

  “Jennifer,” I said. “Hold on while I make this announcement. This is Michael Haller, pro se defendant, talking to his co-counsel, Jennifer Aronson, under privilege. This call should not be monitored.”

  I waited a beat, presumably for the monitor to move on to another inmate’s call.

  “Okay,” I said. “Just checking in. Did you file?”

  “I did. Notifications went out. Hopefully we get a hearing tomorrow.”

  “Did you and Cisco get that Baja thing set up?”

  “Uh, yes…we did.”

  “The whole package? Travel, everything?”

  “Yep, everything.”

  “Good. And the money is ready?”

  “Yes.”

  “What about the guy, you trust him?”

  There was a pause. I assumed Jennifer was realizing what I was doing with the call.

  “Absolutely,” she finally said. “He has it down to a science.”

  “Good,” I said. “I’ll only get one shot at this.”

  “What if they make you wear a bracelet?”

  Jennifer had caught on fast. Her mention of the bracelet was pure gold.

  “Won’t be a problem,” I said. “We can use that guy Cisco used on that other thing that time. He’ll know what to do.”

  “Right,” Jennifer said. “I forgot about him.”

  There was another pause while I thought about how to wrap it up.

  “So, you’ll have to come down, go fishing with me,” I said.

  “I’ll have to brush up on my Spanish,” she said.

  “Anything else to talk about?”

  “Not really.”

  “Okay, then. I guess all I can do is wait on the hearing. See you then.”

  I hung up the phone and stepped aside for the man who had lined up behind me. Bishop was no longer at the table where we had talked. I went up the stairs to the second tier and was halfway to my cell when I remembered my paperwork. When I got back to the phone bank, the documents were gone.

  I tapped the guy who was on the phone on the shoulder. He turned to me.

  “My paperwork,” I said. “Where is it?”

  “What?” he said. “I don’t have your fucking paperwork.”

  He started to turn back toward the phone box.

  “Who took it?” I said.

  I hit him on the back again and he turned angrily toward me.

  “I don’t know who took it, motherfucker. Get the fuck away from me.”

  I turned and scanned the dayroom. There were several inmates moving about the room or sitting in front of an overhead television screen. I looked at their hands or what was beneath their chairs. I didn’t see my paperwork anywhere.

  My eyes went to the cells, the bottom tier first and then the second level. I saw no one and nothing suspicious.

  I moved to a spot below the mirrored glass of the hack tower. I waved my hands over my head to get attention. Eventually a voice came from the speaker below the glass.

  “What is it?”

  “Somebody took my legal papers.”

  “Who?”

  “I don’t know. I left them on the phone box and then two minutes later they were gone.”

  “You’re supposed to take care of your property.”

  “I know that but somebody took it. I’m pro se and I need the documents. You have to search the module.”

  “First of all, you don’t tell me what we have to do. And second, that’s not going to happen.”

  “I’m going to report this to the judge. She’s not going to be happy.”

  “You can’t see me but I’m shaking.”

  “Look, I need to find those documents. They’re important to my case.”

  “Then I guess you should have taken better care of them.”

  I just stared up at the mirror for a long moment before turning away and heading to my cell. I knew at that moment that it didn’t matter how much money it cost, I needed to get out of this place.

  11

  Tuesday, December 10

  Dana Berg claimed she needed time to prepare her opposition to Jennifer Aronson’s motion to reduce bail. That meant I got to spend another weekend and then some in my cell at Twin Towers. I waited for Tuesday like a man in shark-infested waters waiting for the rope that will finally pull him to safety.

  I ate what I hoped would be my last jail baloney sandwich and apple on the bus to the CCB, then began my slow ascent through the courthouse’s vertical jail to the holding cell on the ninth floor beside Judge Warfield’s courtroom. I was delivered there shortly before my 10 a.m. hearing was due to begin, so there was no chance to convene ahead of time with Jennifer. My suit was brought in and I changed. Already tailored once, it was loose in the waist again, and it was mostly by this that I measured what incarceration had done to me. I was clipping on my tie when the co
urtroom deputy told me it was time for court.

  The gallery was more crowded than usual. The reporters were in the same row they always took, and I also saw my daughter and Kendall Roberts as well as my would-be benefactors, Harry Bosch and Andre La Cosse—two men who could not have been more different but were seated there together and ready to shell out their savings for me. Next to them sat Fernando Valenzuela, the bail bondsman ready to make the transaction if the judge could be swayed in my favor. I had worked with Valenzuela on and off for two decades and had at times sworn I would never use him again, just as he had sworn on occasion never to bail out another of my clients. But here he was, apparently willing to let past grievances go and accept the risks of posting a bond for me.

  I smiled at my daughter, winked at Kendall. Just as I was about to turn to the defense table, I saw the courtroom door open and Maggie McPherson enter. She scanned the gallery, saw our daughter, and slid in next to her. Hayley was now sitting between Maggie and Kendall, who had never met. She was making introductions when I took my seat next to Jennifer at the defense table.

  “Did you ask Maggie McFierce to be here?” I whispered.

  “Yes, I did,” Jennifer said.

  “Why would you do that?”

  “Because she’s a prosecutor and if she says you won’t flee, then that will carry a lot of weight with the judge.”

  “Also a lot of weight with her bosses. You shouldn’t have put that kind of pressure on—”

  “Mickey, my job today is to get you out of jail. I’ll use every tool I can get my hands on—and you would too.”

  Before I could respond, Deputy Chan called the courtroom to order. A second later Judge Warfield stepped through the door behind the clerk’s station and moved quickly up the steps to the bench.

  “Back on the record in California versus Haller,” she began. “We have a motion to reduce bail. Who will be arguing for the defense?”

  “I will,” Jennifer said, standing at the defense table.

  “Very well, Ms. Aronson,” Warfield said. “I have the motion before me. Do you have further argument before we hear from the People?”

  Jennifer moved to the lectern with a legal pad and a stack of documents to distribute.

  “Yes, Your Honor,” she said. “In addition to the cases mentioned in the moving papers, I have additional case law here that supports the motion for a lower bail. This is not charged as a case with extenuating or aggravating circumstances and at no time has the state even hinted at an argument that Mr. Haller is a risk to the community. As far as being a flight risk, he has shown nothing since his arrest except the absolute intention to fight this charge and exonerate himself, despite this baseless attempt to hamper his pro se defense by keeping him locked up and unable to fully prepare his case. Put simply, the prosecution wants to keep Mr. Haller in jail because they are afraid and want to go to trial on a slanted playing field.”

  The judge waited a beat in case there was more. Berg stood up at her spot at the prosecution table and waited to be recognized.

  “Additionally, Your Honor,” Jennifer said, “I do have a number of witnesses here who are willing to testify, if need be, to the character of Mr. Haller.”

  “I’m sure that will not be necessary,” Warfield said. “Ms. Berg? I see you are waiting to respond.”

  Berg moved to the lectern as Jennifer vacated it.

  “Thank you, Judge Warfield,” she said. “The state opposes lowering bail in this matter because the defendant does have the means and motive to flee. As the court well knows, we are talking about a murder here, the victim of which was found in the trunk of the defendant’s car. And the evidence clearly indicates the murder took place in the defendant’s garage. In fact, Your Honor, the evidence in this case is overwhelming, and this gives the defendant all the reason in the world to flee.”

  Jennifer objected to Berg’s characterization of the evidence and her presuming what my state of mind would be. The judge instructed Berg to refrain from such speculation and to continue.

  “Additionally, Your Honor,” Berg said. “The state is considering adding a special-circumstance allegation to the charge in this case, which would render the question of bail moot.”

  Jennifer shot up out of her seat.

  “Objection!” she exclaimed.

  I knew this was the battle line. An allegation of special circumstances—murder for hire or for financial gain—would bump the charge to the no-bail level.

  “Counsel’s argument is preposterous,” Jennifer protested. “Not only is there no special circumstance that could be applied in this case, but the defense motion was filed last week, and if the state was considering a valid special circumstance allegation, it would have added it by now. The state is blowing smoke, hoping to stop the court from providing Mr. Haller’s right to bail.”

  Warfield’s eyes moved from Jennifer to Berg.

  “Defense counsel makes a good argument,” the judge said. “What is the special-circumstance allegation the state is supposedly considering?”

  “Your Honor, the investigation of this crime is ongoing and we are developing evidence of a financial motive,” Berg said. “And as the court well knows, murder for financial gain is a special-circumstance crime.”

  Jennifer angrily spread her hands wide.

  “Your Honor,” she said, “is the District Attorney’s Office really asking for bail to be set on the basis of what evidence might be found down the line? This is incredible.”

  “Incredible or not, this court is not going to consider what may lie in the future while making rulings in the present,” Warfield said. “Do both sides submit?”

  “Submitted,” Jennifer said.

  “One moment, Your Honor,” Berg said.

  I watched her lean down to confer with her second, a young attorney who wore bow ties. I had a pretty good idea what they were talking about.

  Warfield quickly grew impatient.

  “Ms. Berg, you asked for time to prepare for this hearing and I gave it. There should be no need for a sidebar with your colleague. Are you ready to submit?”

  Berg straightened up and looked at the judge.

  “No, Your Honor,” she said. “The state believes that the court should be made aware that there is an ongoing investigation of the defendant relating to a plan to flee the country to Mexico, should he be released on bail.”

  Jennifer stood up.

  “Your Honor,” she protested. “More unfounded allegations? Is the state so desperate to keep this man in jail that it trumps up an investigation into—”

  “Your Honor,” I said, as I stood up. “If I may address this allegation?”

  “In a moment, Mr. Haller,” Warfield said. “Ms. Berg, this better be good. Tell me more about this alleged plan to flee the country.”

  “Judge, all I know is that a confidential informant in the jail where Mr. Haller is being housed revealed to investigators that the defendant has openly spoken about a plan to cross the border and flee, if he can make bail. The plan includes circumventing an electronic monitor should the court order that as part of a bail reduction, and co-counsel is fully aware of this. The defendant has gone so far as to invite her down to go fishing.”

  “What do you say about that, Mr. Haller?” Warfield asked.

  “Your Honor, the prosecution’s claim is false on multiple levels, starting with the alleged confidential informant,” I said. “There is no CI. There are only the jail deputies listening in on privileged conversations and then feeding what they hear to the prosecution as intel.”

  “That’s a serious allegation, Mr. Haller,” Warfield said. “Do you care to enlighten us with your knowledge?”

  The judge gestured toward the lectern and I stepped over.

  “Judge Warfield, thank you for the opportunity to bring this matter before the court,” I began. “I have been incarcerated at Twin Towers for six weeks. I elected to go pro se and defend myself with the help of my co-counsel, Ms. Aronson. This meant meetin
gs with my team in the jail as well as calls from the community phones in the K-10 module. These meetings and calls are not supposed to be monitored in any way by law enforcement or anyone else. The privilege is supposed to be sacrosanct.”

  “I hope you are going to get to a point soon, Mr. Haller,” the judge interjected.

  “Arriving there now, Your Honor,” I responded. “As I said, the privilege is sacrosanct. But I became suspicious that that was not the case at Twin Towers and that somehow what was said in my meetings and phone calls with co-counsel and my investigator was getting back to the D.A.’s Office and Ms. Berg. And so, Your Honor, I set up a little test to either prove or disprove my theory. On a phone call with my co-counsel, I announced that I was having a call with counsel under privilege and stated that the call should not be monitored. But it was. And I spun a story that just came out of Ms. Berg’s mouth almost verbatim.”

  Berg stood to speak and I gestured with my hand as if to say your turn. I wanted her to respond because I would then hang her with her own words.

  “Your Honor,” Berg began. “Talk about incredible. The defendant’s plan to flee is revealed in court, and his response is to say, ‘Yes, but I was just kidding. I was just testing to see if anyone was listening.’ That’s a confirmation, Your Honor, and reason alone not to reduce bail in this matter but to raise it.”

  “Does this mean that counsel for the People acknowledges listening to the privileged call?” I asked.

  “It means no such thing,” Berg shot back.

  “Excuse me!” the judge boomed. “I’m the judge here and I’ll ask the questions, if you don’t mind.”

  She paused and stared down hard, first at me and then at Berg.

  “When exactly was this call, Mr. Haller?” she asked.

  “About five forty p.m. Thursday,” I responded.

  Warfield shifted her focus to Berg.

  “I would like to hear this phone call,” she said. “Is that possible, Ms. Berg?”

  “No, Your Honor,” Berg said. “Privileged calls are destroyed by the monitors because they are privileged.”

  “Destroyed after they are listened to?” the judge pressed.

  “No, Your Honor,” Berg said. “Privileged calls are privileged. They are not listened to once they are established as protected conversation with counsel or others under the rules of privilege. The calls are then destroyed. That is why it is not possible to confirm or refute counsel’s outlandish allegation, and he knows it.”