The Lincoln Lawyer Collection

by Connelly, Michael

  I straightened back up and caught Williams giving me a don’t-fuck-with-me stare.

  “Whose DNA was it?” someone called out.

  Williams quickly leaned forward to answer.

  “We’re not answering questions about evidence at this time.”

  “Mickey, why are you taking the case?”

  The question came from the back of the room, from behind the lights, and I could not see the owner of the voice. I moved back to the microphones, angling my body so Williams had to step back.

  “Good question,” I said. “It’s certainly unusual for me to be on the other side of the aisle, so to speak. But I think this is the case to cross over for. I’m an officer of the court and a proud member of the California bar. We take an oath to seek justice and fairness while upholding the Constitution and laws of this nation and state. One of the duties of a lawyer is to take a just cause without personal consideration to himself. This is such a cause. Someone has to speak for Melissa Landy. I have reviewed the evidence in this case and I think I’m on the right side of this one. The measure is proof beyond a reasonable doubt. I think that such proof exists here.”

  Williams moved in and put a hand on my arm to gently move me off the microphone stand.

  “We do not want to go any further than that in regard to the evidence,” he said quickly.

  “Jessup’s already spent twenty-four years in prison,” Salters said. “Anything less than a conviction for first-degree murder and he will probably walk on time served. Mr. Williams, is it really worth the expense and effort of retrying this man?”

  Before she was finished asking the question, I knew she and Williams had a deal working. She lobbed softballs and he hit them out of the park, looking good and righteous on the eleven o’clock news and in the morning paper. Her end of the deal would come with inside scoops on the evidence and trial strategy. I decided in that moment that it was my case, my trial, my deal.

  “None of that matters,” I said loudly from my position to the side.

  All eyes turned to me. Even Williams turned.

  “Can you talk into the microphones, Mickey?”

  It was the same voice from behind the line of lights. He knew to call me Mickey. I once again moved to the microphones, boxing Williams out like a power forward going for the rebound.

  “The murder of a child is a crime that must be prosecuted to the full extent of the law, no matter what the possibilities or risks are. There is no guarantee of victory here. But that was not part of the decision. The measure is reasonable doubt and I believe we surpass that. We believe that the totality of evidence shows that this man committed this horrible crime and it doesn’t matter how much time has gone by or how long he has been incarcerated. He must be prosecuted.

  “I have a daughter only a little older than Melissa was…. You know, people forget that in the original trial, the state sought the death penalty but the jury recommended against it and the judge imposed a life sentence. That was then and this is now. We will once again be seeking the death penalty on this case.”

  Williams put his hand on my shoulder and pulled me away from the microphones.

  “Uh, let’s not get ahead of ourselves here,” he said quickly. “My office has not yet made a determination in regard to whether we will be seeking the death penalty. That will come at a later time. But Mr. Haller makes a very valid and sad point. There can be no worse crime in our society than the murder of a child. We must do all that is within our power and our reach to seek justice for Melissa Landy. Thank you for being here today.”

  “Wait a minute,” called a reporter from one of the middle seats. “What about Jessup? When will he be brought here for trial?”

  Williams put his hands on both sides of the lectern in a casual move designed to keep me from the microphones.

  “Earlier this morning Mr. Jessup was taken into custody by the Los Angeles police and is being transported from San Quentin. He will be booked into the downtown jail and the case will proceed. His conviction was reversed but the charges against him remain in place. We have nothing further at this time.”

  Williams stepped back and signaled me toward the door. He waited until I started moving and was clear of the microphones. He then followed, coming up behind me and whispering into my ear as we went through the door.

  “You do that again and I’ll fire you on the spot.”

  I turned to look back at him while I walked.

  “Do what? Answer one of your setup questions?”

  We moved into the hallway. Ridell was waiting there with the office’s media spokesman, a guy named Fernandez. But Williams turned me down the hall away from them. He was still whispering when he spoke.

  “You went off the script. Do it again and we’re done.”

  I stopped and turned and Williams almost walked into me.

  “Look, I’m not your puppet,” I said. “I’m an independent contractor, remember? You treat me otherwise and you’re going to be holding this hot potato without an oven mitt.”

  Williams just glared at me. I obviously wasn’t getting through.

  “And what was this shit about the death penalty?” he asked. “We haven’t even gotten there and you didn’t have the go-ahead to say it.”

  He was bigger than me, taller. He had used his body to crowd my space and back me up against the wall.

  “It will get back to Jessup and keep him thinking,” I said. “And if we’re lucky, he comes in for a deal and this whole thing goes away, including the civil action. It’ll save you all that money. That’s really what this is about, right? The money. We get a conviction and he’s got no civil case. You and the city save a few million bucks.”

  “That’s got nothing to do with this. This is about justice and you still should have told me what you were doing. You don’t sandbag your own boss.”

  The physical intimidation got old real fast. I put my palm on his chest and backed him off me.

  “Yeah, well, you’re not my boss. I don’t have a boss.”

  “Is that right? Like I said, I could fire your ass right here right now.”

  I pointed down the hall to the door to the press conference room.

  “Yeah, that’ll look good. Firing the independent prosecutor you just hired. Didn’t Nixon do that during the Watergate mess? Worked real well for him. Why don’t we go back in and tell them? I’m sure there are still a few cameras in there.”

  Williams hesitated, realizing his predicament. I had backed him against the wall without even moving. He would look like a complete and unelectable fool if he fired me, and he knew it. He leaned in closer and his whisper dropped lower as he used the oldest threat in the mano a mano handbook. I was ready for it.

  “Do not fuck with me, Haller.”

  “Then don’t fuck with my case. This isn’t a campaign stop and it’s not about money. This is murder, boss. You want me to get a conviction, then get out of my way.”

  I threw him the bone of calling him boss. Williams pressed his mouth into a tight line and stared at me for a long moment.

  “Just so we understand each other,” he finally said.

  I nodded.

  “Yeah, I think we do.”

  “Before you talk to the media about this case, you get it approved by my office first. Understand?”

  “Got it.”

  He turned and headed down the hall. His entourage followed. I remained in the hallway and watched them go. The truth was, there was nothing in the law that I objected to more than the death penalty. It was not that I had ever had a client executed or even tried such a case. It was simply a belief in the idea that an enlightened society did not kill its own.

  But somehow that didn’t stop me from using the threat of the death penalty as an edge in the case. As I stood there alone in the hallway, I thought that maybe that made me a better prosecutor than I had imagined I could be.

  Four

  Tuesday, February 16, 2:43 P.M.

  It usually was the best moment of
a case. The drive downtown with a suspect handcuffed in the backseat. There was nothing better. Sure there was the eventual payoff of a conviction down the line. Being in the courtroom when the verdict is read—watching the reality shock and then deaden the eyes of the convicted. But the drive in was always better, more immediate and personal. It was always the moment Bosch savored. The chase was over and the case was about to morph from the relentless momentum of the investigation to the measured pace of the prosecution.

  But this time was different. It had been a long two days and Bosch wasn’t savoring anything. He and his partner, David Chu, had driven up to Corta Madera the day before, checking into a motel off the 101 and spending the night. In the morning they drove over to San Quentin, presented a court order that transferred custody of Jason Jessup to them, and then collected their prisoner for the drive back to Los Angeles. Seven hours each way with a partner who talked too much. Seven hours on the return with a suspect who didn’t talk enough.

  They were now at the top of the San Fernando Valley and an hour from the City Jail in downtown L.A. Bosch’s back hurt from so many hours behind the wheel. His right calf muscle ached from applying pressure to the gas pedal. The city car did not have cruise control.

  Chu had offered to drive but Bosch had said no. Chu religiously stuck to the speed limit, even on the freeway. Bosch would take the backache over an extra hour on the freeway and the anxiety it would create.

  All of this aside, he drove in uneasy silence, brooding about a case that seemed to be proceeding backwards. He had been on it for only a few days, hadn’t had the opportunity to even become acquainted with all the facts, and here he was with the suspect hooked up and in the backseat. To Bosch it felt like the arrest was coming first and the investigation wouldn’t really start until after Jessup was booked.

  He checked his watch and knew the scheduled press conference must be over by now. The plan was for him to meet with Haller and McPherson at four to continue kicking around the case. But by the time Jessup was booked he would be late. He also needed to go by LAPD archives to pick up two boxes that were waiting for him.

  “Harry, what’s wrong?”

  Bosch glanced at Chu.

  “Nothing’s wrong.”

  He wasn’t going to talk in front of the suspect. Besides, he and Chu had been partnered for less than a year. It was a little soon for Chu to be making reads off of Bosch’s demeanor. Harry didn’t want him to know that he had accurately deduced that he was uncomfortable.

  Jessup spoke from the backseat, his first words since asking for a bathroom break outside of Stockton.

  “What’s wrong is that he doesn’t have a case. What’s wrong is that he knows this whole thing is bullshit and he doesn’t want to be part of it.”

  Bosch checked Jessup in the rearview mirror. He was slightly hunched forward because his hands were cuffed and locked to a chain that went to a set of shackles around his ankles. His head was shaved, a routine prison practice among men hoping to intimidate others. Bosch guessed that with Jessup it had probably worked.

  “I thought you didn’t want to talk, Jessup. You invoked.”

  “Yeah, that’s right. I’ll just shut the fuck up and wait for my lawyer.”

  “He’s in San Francisco, I wouldn’t hold my breath.”

  “He’s calling somebody. The GJP’s got people all over the country. We were ready for this.”

  “Really? You were ready? You mean you packed your cell up because you thought you were being transferred? Or was it because you thought you were going home?”

  Jessup didn’t have an answer for that one.

  Bosch merged onto the 101, which would take them through the Cahuenga Pass and into Hollywood before they reached downtown.

  “How’d you get hooked up with the Genetic Justice Project, Jessup?” he asked, trying once again to get something going. “You go to them or they come to you?”

  “Website, man. I sent in my appeal and they saw the bullshit going on in my case. They took it over and here I am. You people are totally fucked if you think you’re going to win this. I was railroaded by you motherfuckers once before. Ain’t gonna happen again. In two months, this’ll all be over. I’ve been in twenty-four years. What’s two more months? Just makes my book rights more valuable. I guess I should be thanking you and the district attorney for that.”

  Bosch glanced at the mirror again. Normally, he would love a talkative suspect. Most times they talked themselves right into prison. But Jessup was too smart and too cagey. He chose his words carefully, stayed away from talking about the crime itself, and wouldn’t be making a mistake that Bosch could use.

  In the mirror now, Bosch could see Jessup staring out the window. No telling what he was thinking about. His eyes looked dead. Bosch could see the top of a prison ink tattoo on his neck, just breaking the collar line. It looked like part of a word but he couldn’t tell for sure.

  “Welcome to L.A., Jessup,” Chu said without turning around. “Guess it’s been a while, huh?”

  “Fuck you, you chink motherfucker,” Jessup retorted. “This’ll all be over soon and then I’ll be out and on the beach. I’m going to get a longboard and ride some tasty waves.”

  “Don’t count on it, killer,” Chu said. “You’re going down. We got you by the balls.”

  Bosch knew Chu was trying to provoke a response, a slip of the tongue. But he was coming off as an amateur and Jessup was too wise for him.

  Harry grew tired of the back-and-forth, even after six hours of almost complete silence. He turned on the car’s radio and caught the tail end of a report on the DA’s press conference. He turned it up so Jessup would hear, and Chu would keep quiet.

  “Williams and Haller refused to comment on the evidence but indicated they were not as impressed with the DNA analysis as the state’s supreme court was. Haller acknowledged that the DNA found on the victim’s dress did not come from Jessup. But he said the findings did not clear him of involvement in the crime. Haller is a well-known defense attorney and will be prosecuting a murder case for the first time. It did not sound this morning as though he has any hesitation. ‘We will once again be seeking the death penalty on this case.’ ”

  Bosch flicked the volume down and checked the mirror. Jessup was still looking out the window.

  “How about that, Jessup? He’s going for the Jesus juice.”

  Jessup responded tiredly.

  “Asshole’s posturing. Besides, they don’t execute anybody in this state anymore. You know what death row means? It means you get a cell all to yourself and you control what’s on the TV. It means better access to phone, food and visitors. Fuck it, I hope he does go for it, man. But it won’t matter. This is bullshit. This whole thing is bullshit. It’s all about the money.”

  The last line floated out there for a long moment before Bosch finally bit.

  “What money?”

  “My money. You watch, man, they’ll come at me with a deal. My lawyer told me. They’ll want me to take a deal and plead to time served so they don’t have to pay me the money. That’s all this fucking is and you two are just the deliverymen. Fuckin’ FedEx.”

  Bosch was silent. He wondered if it could be true. Jessup was suing the city and county for millions. Could it be that the retrial was simply a political move designed to save money? Both government entities were self-insured. Juries loved hitting faceless corporations and bureaucracies with obscenely large judgments. A jury believing prosecutors and police had corruptly imprisoned an innocent man for twenty-four years would be beyond generous. A hit from an eight-figure judgment could be devastating to both city and county coffers, even if they were splitting the bill.

  But if they jammed Jessup and maneuvered him into a deal in which he acknowledged guilt to gain his freedom, then the lawsuit would go away. So would all the book and movie money he was counting on.

  “Makes a lot of sense, doesn’t it?” Jessup said.

  Bosch checked the mirror and realized that now Jessup w
as studying him. He turned his eyes back to the road. He felt his phone vibrate and pulled it out of his jacket.

  “You want me to take it, Harry?” Chu asked.

  A reminder that it was illegal to talk on a phone while driving an automobile. Bosch ignored him and took the call. It was Lieutenant Gandle.

  “Harry, you close?”

  “Getting off the one-oh-one.”

  “Good. I just wanted to give you a heads-up. They’re lining up at intake. Comb your hair.”

  “Got it, but maybe I’ll give my partner the airtime.”

  Bosch glanced over at Chu but didn’t explain.

  “Either way,” Gandle said. “What’s next?”

  “He invoked so we just book him. Then I have to go back to the war room and meet with the prosecutors. I’ve got questions.”

  “Harry, do they have this guy or not?”

  Bosch checked Jessup in the mirror. He was back to looking out the window.

  “I don’t know, Lieutenant. When I know, you’ll know.”

  A few minutes later they pulled into the rear lot of the jail. There were several television cameras and their operators lined up on a ramp leading to the intake door. Chu sat up straight.

  “Perp walk, Harry.”

  “Yeah. You take him in.”

  “Let’s both do it.”

  “Nah, I’ll hang back.”

  “You sure?”

  “I’m sure. Just don’t forget my cuffs.”

  “Okay, Harry.”

  The lot was clogged with media vans with their transmitters cranked to full height. But they had left the space in front of the ramp open. Bosch pulled in and parked.

  “Okay, you ready back there, Jessup?” Chu asked. “Time to sell tickets.”

  Jessup didn’t respond. Chu opened the door and got out, then opened the rear door for Jessup.

  Bosch watched the ensuing spectacle from the confines of the car.

  Five

  Tuesday, February 16, 4:14 P.M.

  One of the very best things about having previously been married to Maggie McPherson was that I never had to face her in court. The marital split created a conflict of interest that saved me professional defeat and humiliation at her hands on more than one occasion. She was truly the best prosecutor I’d ever seen step into the well and they didn’t call her Maggie McFierce for no reason.