The Lincoln Lawyer Collection

by Connelly, Michael

  “That’s right. He sneaks in and picks up the same trail that takes him to the picnic area.”

  “I wonder why he doesn’t go in the other entrance. It would be easier for him to get to.”

  “Maybe he likes driving on Mulholland and seeing the lights.”

  That was a good point and Bosch needed to consider it.

  “Lieutenant, can you have your people call me the next time he goes there? I don’t care what time it is.”

  “I can have them call you but you’re not going to be able to get in there and get close. It’s too risky. We don’t want to expose the surveillance.”

  “I understand, but have them call me. I just want to know. Now, what about these logs? Is there a way for me to get them a little quicker?”

  “You can come by SIS and pick one up every morning if you want. As you probably noticed, the logs run six P.M. to six P.M. Each daily log is posted by seven the following morning.”

  “Okay, LT, I’ll do that. Thanks for the info.”

  “Have a good one.”

  Bosch closed the phone, wondering about Jessup in Franklin Canyon and what he was doing on his visits there.

  “What did he say?” Maddie asked.

  Bosch hesitated, wondering for the hundredth time whether he should be telling her as much as he did about his cases.

  “He said my guy’s gone back to that park the last two nights. Each time, he just sits there and waits.”

  “For what?”

  “Nobody knows.”

  “Maybe he just wants to be somewhere where he’s completely by himself and away from everybody.”

  “Maybe.”

  But Bosch doubted it. He believed there was a plan to almost everything Jessup did. Bosch just had to figure out what it was.

  “I’m finished with my homework,” Maddie said. “You want to watch Lost?”

  They had been slowly going through the DVDs of the television show, catching up on five years’ worth of episodes. The show was about several people who survived a plane crash on an uncharted island in the South Pacific. Bosch had trouble keeping track of things from show to show but watched because his daughter had been completely taken in by the story.

  He had no time to watch television right now.

  “Okay, one episode,” he said. “Then you have to go to bed and I have to get back to work.”

  She smiled. This made her happy and for the moment Bosch’s grammatical and parental transgressions seemed forgotten.

  “Set it up,” Bosch said. “And be prepared to remind me what’s happening.”

  Five hours later, Bosch was on a jet that was shaking with wild turbulence. His daughter was sitting across the aisle from him rather than in the open seat next to him. They reached across the aisle to each other to hold hands but the bouncing of the plane kept knocking them apart. He couldn’t grab her hand.

  Just as he turned in his seat to see the tail section break off and fall away, he was awakened by a buzzing sound. He reached to the bed table and grabbed his phone. He struggled to find his voice as he answered.

  “This is Bosch.”

  “This is Shipley, SIS. I was told to call.”

  “Jessup’s at the park?”

  “He’s in a park, yeah, but tonight it’s a different one.”

  “Where?”

  “Fryman Canyon off Mulholland.”

  Bosch knew Fryman Canyon. It was about ten minutes away from Franklin Canyon.

  “What’s he doing?”

  “He’s just sort of walking on one of the trails. Just like at the other park. He walks the trail and then he sits down. He doesn’t do anything after that. He just sits for a while and then leaves.”

  “Okay.”

  Bosch looked at the glowing numbers on the clock. It was two o’clock exactly.

  “Are you coming out?” Shipley asked.

  Bosch thought about his daughter asleep in her bedroom. He knew he could leave and be back before she woke up.

  “Uh… no, I have my daughter here and I can’t leave her.”

  “Suit yourself.”

  “When does your shift end?”

  “About seven.”

  “Can you call me then?”

  “If you want.”

  “I’d like you to call me every morning when you are getting off. To tell me where he’s been.”

  “Uh… all right, I guess. Can I ask you something? This guy killed a girl, right?”

  “That’s right.”

  “And you’re sure about that? I mean, no doubt, right?”

  Bosch thought about the interview with Sarah Gleason.

  “I have no doubt.”

  “Okay, well, that’s good to know.”

  Bosch understood what he was saying. He was looking for assurance. If circumstances dictated the use of deadly force against Jessup, it was good to know who and what they would be shooting at. Nothing else needed to be said about it.

  “Thanks, Shipley,” Bosch said. “I’ll talk to you later.”

  Bosch disconnected and put his head back on the pillow. He remembered the dream about the plane. About reaching out to his daughter but being unable to grab her hand.

  Fifteen

  Wednesday, February 24, 8:15 A.M.

  Judge Diane Breitman welcomed us into her chambers and offered a pot of coffee and a plate of shortbread cookies, an unusual move for a criminal courts judge. In attendance were myself and my second chair, Maggie McPherson, and Clive Royce, who was without his second but not without his temerity. He asked the judge if he could have hot tea instead.

  “Well, this is nice,” the judge said once we were all seated in front of her desk, cups and saucers in hand. “I have not had the opportunity to see any of you practice in my courtroom. So I thought it would be good for us to start out a bit informally in chambers. We can always step out into the courtroom to go on the record if necessary.”

  She smiled and none of the rest of us responded.

  “Let me start by saying that I have a deep respect for the decorum of the courtroom,” Breitman continued. “And I insist that the lawyers who practice before me do as well. I am expecting this trial to be a spirited contest of the evidence and facts of the case. But I won’t stand for any acting out or crossing of the lines of courtesy and jurisprudence. I hope that is clearly understood.”

  “Yes, Your Honor,” Maggie responded while Royce and I nodded.

  “Good, now let’s talk about media coverage. The media is going to be hovering over this case like the helicopters that followed O.J. down the freeway. That is clearly a given. I have requests here from three local network affiliates, a documentary filmmaker and Dateline NBC. They all want to film the trial in its entirety. While I see no problem with that, as long as proper protections of the jury are put in place, my concern is in the extracurricular activity that is bound to occur outside the courtroom. Do any of you have any thoughts in this regard?”

  I waited a beat and when no one spoke up, I did.

  “Judge, I think because of the nature of this case—a retrial of a case twenty-four years old—there has already been too much media attention and we’re going to have a difficult time seating twelve people and two alternates who aren’t aware of the case through the filter of the media. I mean, we’ve had the accused surfing on the front page of the Times and sitting courtside at the Lakers. How are we going to get an impartial jury out of this? The media, with no lack of help from Mr. Royce, is presenting this guy as this poor, persecuted innocent man and they don’t have the slightest idea what the evidence is against him.”

  “Your Honor, I object,” Royce said.

  “You can’t object,” I said. “This isn’t a court hearing.”

  “You used to be a defense attorney, Mick. Whatever happened to innocent until proven guilty?”

  “He already has been.”

  “In a trial the top court in this state termed a travesty. Is that what you want to stand on?”

  “Listen, Cli
ve, I’m an attorney and innocent until proven guilty is a measure you apply in court, not on Larry King Live.”

  “We haven’t been on Larry King Live—yet.”

  “See what I mean, Judge? He wants to—”

  “Gentlemen, please!” Breitman said.

  She waited a moment until she was certain our debate had subsided.

  “This is a classic situation where we need to balance the public’s right to know with safeguards that will provide us an untainted jury, an unimpeded trial and a just result.”

  “But, Your Honor,” Royce said quickly, “we can’t forbid the media to examine this case. Freedom of the press is the cornerstone of American democracy. And, further, I draw your attention to the very ruling that granted this retrial. The court found serious deficiencies in the evidence and castigated the District Attorney’s Office for the corrupt manner in which it has prosecuted my client. Now you are going to prohibit the media from looking at this?”

  “Oh, please,” Maggie said dismissively. “We’re not talking about prohibiting the media from looking at anything, and your lofty defense of the freedom of the press aside, that’s not what this is about. You are clearly trying to influence voir dire with your pretrial manipulation of the media.”

  “That is absolutely untrue!” Royce howled. “I have responded to media requests, yes. But I am not trying to influence anything. Your Honor, this is an—”

  There was a sharp crack from the judge’s desk. She had grabbed a gavel from a decorative pen set and brought it down hard on the wood surface.

  “Let’s cool down here,” Breitman said. “And let’s hold off on the personal attacks. As I indicated before, there has to be a happy medium. I am not inclined to muzzle the press, but I will issue a gag order against the lawyers in my court if I believe they are not acting in a manner that is responsible to the case at hand. I am going to start off by leaving each of you to determine what is reasonable and responsible interaction with the media. But I will warn you now that the consequences for a transgression in this area will be swift and possibly detrimental to one’s cause. No warnings. You cross the line and that’s it.”

  She paused and waited for a comeback. No one said anything. She placed the gavel back in its special holder next to the gold pen. Her voice returned to its friendly tone.

  “Good,” she said. “I think that’s understood, then.”

  She said she wanted to move on to other matters germane to the trial and her first stop was the trial date. She wanted to know if both sides would be ready to proceed to trial as scheduled, less than six weeks away. Royce said once again that his client would not waive the speedy trial statute.

  “The defense will be ready to go on April fifth, provided that the prosecution doesn’t continue to play games with discovery.”

  I shook my head. I couldn’t win with this guy. I had gone out of my way to get the discovery pipeline going, but he had decided to take a shot at making me look like a cheater in front of the judge.

  “Games?” I said. “Judge, I’ve already turned over to Mr. Royce an initial discovery file. But as you know, it’s a two-way street and the prosecution has received nothing in return from him.”

  “He turned over the discovery file from the first trial, Judge Breitman, complete with a nineteen eighty-six witness list. It completely subverts the spirit and the rules of discovery.”

  Breitman looked at me and I could see that Royce had successfully scored a hit.

  “Is this true, Mr. Haller?” she asked.

  “Hardly, Your Honor, the witness list was both subtracted from and added to. Additionally, I turned over—”

  “One name,” Royce interjected. “He added one name and it was his own investigator. Big deal, like I didn’t know his investigator might be a witness.”

  “Well, that’s the only new name I have at the moment.”

  Maggie jumped into the fray with both feet.

  “Your Honor, the prosecution is duty-bound to turn over all discovery materials thirty days prior to trial. By my count we are still forty days out. Mr. Royce is complaining about a good-faith effort on the part of the prosecution to provide him with discovery material before it even has to. It seems that no good deed goes unpunished with Mr. Royce.”

  The judge held up her hand to stop commentary while she looked at the calendar hanging on the wall to the left of her desk.

  “I think Ms. McPherson makes a good point,” she said. “Your complaint is premature, Mr. Royce. All discovery materials are due to both sides by this Friday, March fifth. If you have a problem then, we will take this up again.”

  “Yes, Your Honor,” Royce said meekly.

  I wanted to reach over, raise Maggie’s hand in the air and shake it in victory but I didn’t think that would be appropriate. Still, it felt good to win at least one point against Royce.

  After discussion of a few more routine pretrial issues, the meeting ended and we walked out through the judge’s courtroom. I stopped there to talk small talk with the judge’s clerk. I didn’t really know her that well but I didn’t want to walk out of the courtroom with Royce. I was afraid I might lose my temper, which would be exactly what he’d want.

  After he went through the double doors at the back of the courtroom I cut off the conversation and headed out with Maggie at my side.

  “You kicked his ass, Maggie McFierce,” I said to her. “Verbally.”

  “Doesn’t matter unless we kick it at trial.”

  “Don’t worry, we will. I want you to take over discovery fulfillment. Go ahead and do what you prosecutors do. Haystack everything. Give him so much material he’ll never see what and who’s important.”

  She smiled as she turned and used her back to push through the door.

  “Now you’re getting it.”

  “I hope so.”

  “What about Sarah? He’s got to figure we found her and if he’s smart he won’t wait for discovery. He probably has his own guy looking. She can be found. Harry proved that.”

  “There’s not a whole lot we can do about it. Speaking of Harry, where is he this morning?”

  “He called me and said he had some things to check out. He’ll be around later. You didn’t really answer my question about Sarah. What should—?”

  “Tell her that she might have another visitor, somebody working for the defense, but that she doesn’t have to talk to anybody unless she wants to.”

  We headed out into the hallway and then went left toward the elevator bank.

  “If she doesn’t talk to them, Royce will complain to the judge. She’s the key witness, Mickey.”

  “So? The judge won’t be able to make her talk if she doesn’t want to talk. Meantime, Royce loses prep time. He wants to play games like he did with the judge in there, then we’ll play games, too. In fact, how about this? We put every convict Jessup ever shared a prison cell with on the witness list. That should keep his investigators out of the way for a while.”

  A broad smile broke across Maggie’s face.

  “You really are getting it, aren’t you?”

  We squeezed onto the crowded elevator. Maggie and I were close enough to kiss. I looked down into her eyes as I spoke.

  “That’s because I don’t want to lose.”

  Sixteen

  Wednesday, February 24, 8:45 A.M.

  After school drop-off Bosch turned his car around and headed back up Woodrow Wilson, past his house, and to what those in the neighborhood called the upper crossing with Mulholland Drive. Both Mulholland and Woodrow Wilson were long and winding mountain roads. They intersected twice, at the bottom and top of the mountain, thus the local description of upper and lower crossings.

  At the top of the mountain Bosch turned right onto Mulholland and followed it until it crossed Laurel Canyon Boulevard. He then pulled off the road to make a call on his cell. He punched in the number Shipley had given him for the SIS dispatch sergeant. His name was Willman and he would know the current status of any SIS su
rveillance. At any given time, SIS could be working four or five unrelated cases. Each was given a code name in order to keep them in order and so that the real names of suspects did not ever go out over the radio. Bosch knew that the Jessup surveillance had been termed Operation Retro because it involved an old case and a retrial.

  “This is Bosch, RHD. I’m lead on the Retro case. I want to get a location on the suspect because I’m about to pull into one of his favorite haunts. I want to make sure I don’t run into him.”

  “Hold one.”

  Bosch could hear the phone being put down, then a radio conversation in which the duty sergeant asked for Jessup’s location. The response was garbled with static by the time it reached Bosch over the phone. He waited for the sergeant’s official response.

  “Retro is in pocket right now,” he promptly reported to Bosch. “They think he’s catching Zs.”

  In pocket meant he was at home.

  “Then I’m clear,” Bosch said. “Thank you, Sergeant.”

  “Any time.”

  Bosch closed the phone and pulled the car back onto Mulholland. A few curves later he reached Fryman Canyon Park and turned in. Bosch had talked to Shipley early that morning as he was passing surveillance off to the day team. He reported that Jessup had once again visited both Franklin and Fryman canyons. Bosch was becoming consumed with curiosity about what Jessup was up to and this was only increased by the report that Jessup had also driven by the house on Windsor where the Landy family had once lived.

  Fryman was a rugged, inclined park with steep trails and a flat-surface parking and observation area on top and just off Mulholland. Bosch had been there before on cases and was familiar with its expanse. He pulled to a stop with his car pointing north and the view of the San Fernando Valley spread before him. The air was pretty clear and the vista stretched all the way across the valley to the San Gabriel Mountains. The brutal week of storms that had ended January had cleared the skies out and the smog was only now climbing back into the valley’s bowl.

  After a few minutes Bosch got out and walked over to the bench where Shipley had told him Jessup had sat for twenty minutes while looking out at the lights below. Bosch sat down and checked his watch. He had an eleven o’clock appointment with a witness. That gave him more than an hour.