I walked up a knoll. From here I could see no buildings or cars or people. Not even a plane in the sky. The grasses were light brown, dotted with some plants deep green and scrubby. I wondered if any of this was jimsonweed. If there was a wildfire, maybe this whole side of the Valley would get high.
I thought about Sister Mary and how I shouldn’t think about her.
I thought about how it was cooling off in the hills.
And how everything else was heating up and needed to blow.
It didn’t take long.
177
WHEN SAM DECOSSE wants something to happen, it happens.
The next day at ten-thirty a.m. Sister Mary and I were outside the building that houses Gunther, McDonough & Longyear.
Waiting for Lieutenant Brosia, who was prompt.
“Nice to see you again,” Sister Mary said.
“I can’t believe I’m doing this,” Brosia said.
“I guarantee that you’ll find this of interest,” I said.
“That’s not what you guaranteed. You guaranteed new evidence.”
“It’s inside,” I said. “At least, I hope it is.”
The detective sighed.
I put on a slight Marlon Brando godfather voice. “Someday, and that day may never come, I will ask you to do me a service.”
“Let’s just go up and get this over with,” he said.
178
THEY WERE WAITING for us in the conference room. Seated at the table with their backs to the windows were Sam DeCosse and his son, along with their legal team—Al Bradshaw, Hyrum Roddy, and my old boss, Pierce McDonough.
What a surreal experience that was, entering that room again. I’d done many a deposition there. Now I was, in a manner of speaking, the enemy.
They looked surprised at my guests. “This is Lieutenant Tim Brosia, LAPD,” I said. “And Sister Mary Veritas of the Benedictine Order.”
Pierce McDonough said, “What is this supposed to mean, Ty?”
“They’re my support team,” I said. “And may have some relevant information for all of us.”
“Forget this,” Junior sputtered. “We don’t have to sit here and—”
“Shut up,” Sam DeCosse Senior said. Junior shut up. Then, to me, Senior said, “Let’s get this over with. I don’t want to do this again.”
Brosia, Sister Mary, and I took chairs on the other side of the conference table. Al and Roddy had pads and pens ready. The others glared. This was something. Legal and business power on one side. The cops, the Catholic church, and me on the other.
It was a toss-up who’d walk out bloody and bowed.
“Well, thanks,” I said. “Nice of you to consent to this meeting. I think, as Mr. DeCosse says, we can settle this thing and not have to do it again. So let’s review how we got here. It started with a client of mine at the Lindbrook, who was about to be shuffled out, contrary to law. Then she ends up dead, and her daughter motherless and that bothers me. See, I don’t like my clients to end up dead.”
“Come on, Ty,” McDonough said. “This isn’t about a dead woman.”
“Oh, but it is, Pierce. Whoever it was that killed her had to have access to the hotel. Came up the back way, where the door is locked. Also, had to be someone who knew Reatta, also known as Tawni. Formerly an escort with an outfit called L.A. Night Silk. Does that ring any bells?”
Looks were exchanged all over the place until Pierce McDonough said, “What does this have to do with settling the tenancy dispute?”
“Maybe everything,” I said. “Nine years ago one of the escorts for L.A. Night Silk was charged for misdemeanor prostitution, under section 647. Her name was Ginger Lambelet. I went down to the Hall of Records and found the court file. I was able to find that file because Lieutenant Brosia here found the docket number in the LAPD database.”
The two DeCosses looked the same at this point. You could tell they were father and son. Staring straight at me, not moving, cheeks beginning to show pink.
“He found the name because he got a set of fingerprints, very nice ones, too. On slick paper.”
I nodded at Brosia and he pulled a plastic bag out of his inner coat pocket.
Inside was the program from As You Like It, the one Ariel had signed for me.
Brosia slid it across the table to Pierce McDonough. Junior grabbed for it, but Senior’s hand slapped down on top of it, trumping everybody.
He kept his hand on the bag, not bothering to pick it up. “So what?”
“The print from the program matches that of Ginger Lambelet,” I said.
Junior jumped out of his chair. Arms flailing he screamed, “Are we gonna sit here and let him do this?”
“Sit down,” Senior said.
But Junior didn’t sit down. He backed away from the table, started walking away.
That’s when Daddy stood up. His voice boomed like Thor’s hammer, and he ordered his son, in words and phrases that no nun should ever hear, to get back in his chair.
Junior looked like he was going to cry. Maybe he did. He was sure breathing hard. Then he said, “No. Not this time.”
Senior now dropped his voice to almost a whisper. “You think you’re ready to go it alone?”
That was all he needed to say. Whatever resolve Junior had managed to work up melted away like snow on a stove. He was practically liquid when he slid back to his chair. I almost felt sorry for him.
“I apologize,” Sam DeCosse Senior said. “Please get to your point, Mr. Buchanan.”
179
“MY THEORY,” I said, “is that your wife killed Reatta in the Lindbrook Hotel. The question is, why? And the answer is that Reatta was into some sort of blackmail. Maybe she was threatening to expose Mrs. DeCosse, who is trying so hard to go legit. I don’t know, but whatever it was, I think it was a freelance idea.”
“What do you mean by that?” Senior said.
“Reatta had a connection to both the Lindbrook and St. Monica’s. The hotel is owned by Orpheus, and there’s also a pending deal on the land adjacent to St. Monica’s that Orpheus is interested in. Now, either that’s a very great coincidence or a setup. I think it was a setup. I think Reatta was a plant, in a very nice scheme to squeeze some very big dollars out of Orpheus.”
“Planted by who?” DeCosse said.
“That’s the really interesting part,” I said. “On the Lindbrook matter she talked about getting a TRO. Not temporary restraining order. TRO. I don’t know, but in my experience, right here with good old Gunther, McDonough, very few people toss that term off the cuff, like lawyers do. It sounds like she either went to law school or got prepped by someone who did.”
I opened my briefcase and pulled out a copy I’d made. “Here’s a copy of the court transcript in the 647 prostitution matter, which records the appearances of counsel. Ginger Lambelet had two lawyers that day. One of them I don’t know, but the other name I do.”
I slid the paper across the table.
Hyrum Roddy was already standing when the paper reached Senior. He knew his name was on the document.
I said, “So here we have a DeCosse lawyer appearing at a prostitution misdemeanor. Now, why?”
Brosia said, “I wonder if I might have a few words with Mr. Roddy alone.”
“No,” Roddy said. “You may not.”
“I think Mr. Roddy may know something about the murder of an escort named Avisha Jones,” I said. “And the kidnapping of a six-year-old girl named Kylie.”
Roddy’s lips moved but no sound came out.
“Avisha was working on a score,” I said, “and it had something to do with Ginger. I think she knew Ginger, and maybe she wanted in on the action Reatta had found.”
“This is ridiculous,” Roddy said.
“Is it?” Senior said. To Brosia he said, “Maybe Mr. Roddy can have a talk with me and a Mr. Devlin.”
Hyrum Roddy laughed. “This is such a joke.” He grabbed his briefcase and walked around the table, headed for the double doors.
Brosia got up and said, “We’re going to have that talk now.”
“I’m not talking to you or anybody,” Roddy said.
“Call your lawyer,” Brosia said. “Tell him to meet you at Central Division.”
180
AS SOON AS Brosia escorted Roddy out, Sam DeCosse looked at me and said, “You’re pretty smart.”
“I try,” I said.
“He really does,” Sister Mary said.
“What is it you want?” he said.
“Maybe you can see your way clear to give the Lindbrook residents the full tenancy rights they deserve. The guys there don’t have much left. A bunch of them fought so you and Junior can keep on living and keep on making deals. I think it would be a nice gesture, don’t you?”
“Don’t tell me that’s what this has been about.”
“It’s been about a lot of things, Sam.”
“Don’t give him anything,” Junior said.
“Now, Junior,” I said, “don’t be getting in the way of your dad’s best interests.”
“Don’t talk to me,” he said.
“Shall I talk to Dad? Tell him about the yacht party and the intimate scene at Musso and Frank?”
Junior looked at Dad. Dad looked at Junior and seemed to know everything. Or else was thinking that he soon would.
“I think that’s all the information I need,” Senior said. “I’ll talk to Mr. McDonough and Mr. Bradshaw and we’ll get back to you.”
181
“YOU WERE VERY effective in there,” Sister Mary said in the car as we drove back to St. Monica’s.
“Partly,” I said. “There are still some threads dangling. I’m hoping Brosia can help me weave them together.”
“Maybe I can help, too.”
“You have a theory?”
“A hunch. The sin of pride. There are things going on in the past here that people don’t want to come out.”
“Good theory,” I said. “We all have things from the past we don’t want people to know about.”
“Even you?”
“Even me.”
“Like what?”
“If I told you,” I said, “then you’d know.”
“Very logical,” Sister Mary said. “You ought to be a lawyer.”
“No money in it.”
“The best things are never done for money.”
“Tell that to Donald Trump.”
“I’d like to tell a few things to Donald Trump.”
And I wanted to tell her a few things, but I clammed up. Maybe the right time would come. Maybe it wouldn’t.
And maybe I had to get used to the idea of never seeing Sister Mary again.
182
IT HIT THE news the next day.
Sam DeCosse Senior was going to war. With his wife. With his soon-to-be ex-wife. He was going to cut her up and feed her to the fish.
Metaphorically speaking, of course.
He had an ironclad prenup. The prenup of all prenups. Better than the Massey Prenup from that movie with George Clooney. It was the iron-jaws-of-death prenup.
At least that’s how his lawyer put it in the paper.
But Ariel DeCosse would soon have a greater problem than this.
183
THE MURDER TRIAL of Gilbert Calderón lasted a week.
Mitch Roberts was very good. Workmanlike. Professional. Deadly.
The jury we’d picked could go either way. Like most lawyers in trial, I got the sick feeling they’d go for Mitch.
Gilbert kept putting his hand on my arm to cheer me up.
Terrific.
I had two major moves to make, and the judge, an old veteran named Paul Lowe, could stop them both.
To lay the groundwork for the first move, I cross-examined Detective Sean Plunkett, the lead detective, and asked him only three questions.
“You took a statement from Nydessa Perry, is that correct?”
“Yes.”
“She was the last witness you interviewed, is that right?”
“That’s right.”
“And you did not consider any other suspects after that, did you?”
“Our investigation was complete.”
“Thank you.”
I questioned him that way because Mitch Roberts did not call Nydessa Perry as one of his witnesses. She was too volatile.
So when the prosecution rested and it was my turn, the first witness I called was Nydessa Perry.
Roberts objected. At the bench he told the judge, “She’s not on the defense witness list!”
“She’s on the People’s list,” I said. “Don’t they know their own witnesses?”
“It doesn’t matter,” Roberts said.
“Can you cite me a case?” Judge Lowe asked.
Roberts said he could try to find one.
“Not on my dime,” Lowe said. “Objection overruled. The witness can testify.”
She did—and blew up, just like I’d hoped. She insisted Gilbert did it, but she looked like a nut saying so. The judge let me treat her as hostile, so I got to impeach my own witness with her drug record. Roberts kept objecting but to no avail.
When closing argument came, I’d tell the jury that Detective Plunkett should have discounted Nydessa Perry’s statement, and kept the investigation going.
But that was not the big move.
184
THE BIG MOVE was when I called Leonora Esparza, the woman I’d cornered in the fish food section of the pet store.
Roberts objected and wanted an offer of proof.
Up at the bench I showed the judge the photo that Ms. Esparza had signed, the one I’d shown to Mr. Roshdieh, the one he’d ID’d as definitely being Gilbert Calderón. Only it wasn’t a photograph of Gilbert Calderón but of someone named Rolando Santiago. A fact I could establish by another witness.
“He violated 1054.8 to get that,” Roberts pleaded.
“So what?” Judge Lowe asked. “You want sanctions?”
“No, I want to exclude this evidence.”
“Seems like relevant evidence to me, Mr. Roberts. The remedy of exclusion does not seem apt here.”
Roberts looked at me. He seemed incredulous.
“Just like pool,” I said. “It’s a table and it’s balls.”
“What are you talking about?” the judge said.
“It’s a Paul Newman thing,” I said.
So I got the photo evidence in. And then it all came down to closing arguments.
This is usually where I want to be. Give me a jury. Give me twelve in the box I can talk to. It helps to believe in your client. Defense lawyers almost never get to do that. We have to argue the Constitution and the presumption of innocence and all. Nothing wrong with that.
When you really think your client is telling the truth, though, it’s like getting an espresso in your coffee. But that jolt also makes you nervous. Because when it’s an innocent guy on the line you really better be good.
Be your best.
Mitch Roberts was at his best. In California the prosecution leads off with its summation. Then the defense gets to argue. And the prosecution gets to have the last word.
Roberts would get two bites at the apple to my one.
I had to make mine a very big bite.
I got up to argue at 11:05 a.m. on a Friday morning. I thanked the jury for their attention. And I started in on my prepared statement.
But then something happened. Some words came to my head. And I had to say them.
“You, ladies and gentlemen, stand between the government and Mr. Calderón. It is you, and you alone, who judge the facts in this case. Not the prosecutor. Not the judge. You. And that, ladies and gentlemen, is what makes this country different from almost every other country on earth.”
I engaged several sets of juror eyes. And got this funny feeling. It was like I was flying almost. Yes, that was it. As if Mitch Roberts was Pierpont Wicks and I was in his home gym. But flying through the middle, throwing the ball up backward, a no-looker, knowing
it would go in.
“In our country it is not the prosecutor who gets to vote. He has to prove his case to you beyond a reasonable doubt. Beyond a reasonable doubt. If he does not, you must find Mr. Calderón not guilty. Because, ladies and gentlemen, throughout the history of the criminal law there runs a sacred trust, which is now placed in your hands. I am talking about the presumption of innocence.”
I talked about a lot more, sat down, and listened to Mitch Roberts go.
He was good again.
Judge Lowe instructed the jury on the law and sent them off to deliberate.
And the lawyers home to stew.
Then called us back two hours later. It was 5:15 p.m. when the jury came in with their verdict.
When one of them, number six, a woman from San Fernando, smiled at me I knew what it was.
Not guilty.
Gilbert Calderón threw his arms around my neck. “I told you you could do this!”
“Easy—”
“You got a friend for life, man. Me!”
“You can let me go now,” I said.
“No way, man!”
“Go hug your mother.”
“Oh, yeah.” He let go, but not before planting a kiss on my cheek.
Mitch Roberts walked over. “Don’t expect a kiss from me,” he said.
“I’m hurt, Mitch. I mean, Mr. Roberts.”
“Mitch. Nice job.”
“Thanks,” I said.
“I hope you know I really thought it was your guy,” he said.
“You mean, nothing personal?”
“That’s what a trial is for,” Roberts said. “If I didn’t think I could prove it, I wouldn’t have brought it. But I brought it and the jury said I didn’t prove it. I accept their verdict.”
“For what it’s worth, you’re very good.”
“So are you. I didn’t think that sacred-trust stuff worked anymore. You made it work. You ever think of giving up the solo life, you’d make a good DA.”
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