Dread for Melissa Landy and all the other victims in the world.
Thirty-six
Wednesday, April 7, 11:00 P.M.
Gilbert and Sullivan were waiting for him in a car parked on Lankershim Boulevard near its northern terminus at San Fernando Road. It was a blighted area populated primarily with used-car lots and repair shops. In the midst of all of this low-rent industry was a run-down motel advertising rooms for fifty dollars a week. The motel had no name on display. Just the lighted sign that said MOTEL.
Gilbert and Sullivan were Gilberto Reyes and John Sullivan, a pair of narcs assigned to the Valley Enforcement Team, a street-level drug unit. When Bosch was looking for Edward Roman he put the word out in all such units in the department. His assumption from Roman’s record was that he had never gotten away from the life as Sarah Gleason had. There had to be somebody in the department’s narco units with a line on him.
It paid off with a call from Reyes. He and his partner didn’t have a bead on Roman but they knew him from past interactions on the street and knew where his current trick partner was holed up and apparently awaiting his return. Long-term drug addicts often partnered with a prostitute, offering her protection in exchange for a share of the drugs her earnings bought.
Bosch pulled his car up behind the narcs’ UC car and parked. He got out and moved up to their car, getting in the back after checking the seat to make sure it was clean of vomit and any other detritus from the people they had transported lately.
“Detective Bosch, I presume?” said the driver, whom Bosch guessed was Reyes.
“Yeah, how are you guys?”
He offered his fist over the seat and they both gave him a bump while identifying themselves. Bosch had it wrong. The one who looked to be of Latin origin was Sullivan and the one who looked like a bag of white bread was Reyes.
“Gilbert and Sullivan, huh?”
“That’s what they called us when we got partnered,” Sullivan said. “Kind of stuck.”
Bosch nodded. That was enough for the meet-and-greet. Everybody had a nickname and a story to go with it. These guys together didn’t add up to how old Bosch was and they probably had no clue who Gilbert and Sullivan were, anyway.
“So you know Eddie Roman?”
“We’ve had the pleasure,” Reyes said. “Just another piece of human shit that floats around out here.”
“But like I told you on the phone, we ain’t seen him in a month or so,” Sullivan added. “So we got you his next best thing. His onion. She’s over there in room three.”
“What’s her name?”
Sullivan laughed and Bosch didn’t get it.
“Her name is Sonia Reyes,” said Reyes. “No relation.”
“That he knows of,” Sullivan added.
He burst into laughter, which Bosch ignored.
“Spell it for me,” he said.
He took out his notebook and wrote it down.
“And you’re sure she’s in the room?”
“We’re sure,” Reyes said.
“Okay, anything else I should know before I go in?”
“No,” Reyes said, “but we were planning on goin’ in with you. She might get squirrelly with you.”
Bosch reached forward and clapped him on the shoulder.
“No, I got this. I don’t want a crowd in the room.”
Reyes nodded. Message delivered. Bosch did not want any witnesses to what he might need to do here.
“But thanks for the help. It will be noted.”
“An important case, huh?” Sullivan said.
Bosch opened the door and got out.
“They all are,” he said.
He closed the door, slapped the roof twice and walked away.
The hotel had an eight-foot security fence around it. Bosch had to press a buzzer and hold his badge up to a camera. He was buzzed into the compound but walked right by the office and down a breezeway leading to the rooms.
“Hey!” a voice called from behind.
Bosch turned and saw a man with an unbuttoned shirt leaning out the door of the motel’s office.
“Where the fuck you goin’, dude?”
“Go back inside and shut the door. This is police business.”
“Don’t matter, man. I let you in but this is private property. You can’t just come through the—”
Bosch started quickly moving back up the breezeway toward the man. The man took his measure and backed down without Bosch saying a word.
“Never mind, man. You’re good.”
He quickly stepped back inside and closed the door. Bosch turned back and found room three without a further problem. He leaned close to the jamb to see if he could pick up any sound. He heard nothing.
There was a peephole. He put his finger over it and knocked. He waited and then knocked again.
“Sonia, open up. Eddie sent me.”
“Who are you?”
The voice was female, ragged and suspicious. Bosch used the universal pass code.
“Doesn’t matter. Eddie sent me with somethin’ to hold you over till he’s done.”
No response.
“Okay, Sonia, I’ll tell him you weren’t interested. I’ve got someone else who wants it.”
He took his finger off the peep and started walking away. Almost immediately the door opened behind him.
“Wait.”
Bosch turned back. The door was open six inches. He saw a set of hollow eyes looking out at him, a dim light behind them.
“Let me see.”
Bosch looked around.
“What, out here?” he said. “They got cameras all over the place.”
“Eddie tol’ me not to open the door for strangers. You look like a cop to me.”
“Well, maybe I am, but that doesn’t change that Eddie sent me.”
Bosch started to turn again.
“Like I said, I’ll tell him I tried. Have a nice night.”
“Okay, okay. You can come in but only to make the drop. Nothing else.”
Bosch walked back toward the door. She moved behind it and opened it. He entered and turned to her and saw the gun. It was an old revolver and he saw no bullets in the exposed chambers. Bosch raised his hands chest high. He could tell she was hurting. She’d been waiting too long for somebody, putting blind junkie trust in something that wouldn’t pay off.
“That’s not necessary, Sonia. Besides, I don’t think Eddie left you with any bullets.”
“I got one left. You want to try it?”
Probably the one she was saving for herself. She was skin and bones and close to the end of the line. No junkie went the distance.
“Give it to me,” she ordered. “Now.”
“Okay, take it easy. I have it right here.”
He reached his right hand into his coat pocket and pulled out a balled piece of aluminum foil he had taken from a roll in Mickey Haller’s kitchen. He held it out to the right of his body and he knew her desperate eyes would follow it. He shot his left hand out and snatched the gun out of her hand. He then stepped forward and roughly shoved her onto the bed.
“Shut up and don’t move,” he commanded.
“What is—?”
“I said shut up!”
He popped the gun’s barrel out and checked it. She had been right. There was one bullet left. He slid it out into his palm and then put it in his pocket. He hooked the gun into his belt. Then he pulled his badge wallet and opened it for her to see.
“You had that right,” he said.
“What do you want?”
“We’ll get to that.”
Bosch moved around the bed, looking about the threadbare room. It smelled like cigarettes and body odor. There were several plastic grocery bags on the floor containing her belongings. Shoes in one, clothing in a few others. On the bed’s lone side table was an overloaded ashtray and a glass pipe.
“What are you hurting for, Sonia. Crack? Heroin? Or is it meth?”
She didn’t answer.
&n
bsp; “I can help you better if I know what you need.”
“I don’t want your help.”
Bosch turned and looked at her. So far things were going exactly as he predicted they would.
“Really?” he said. “Don’t need my help? You think Eddie Roman is going to come back for you?”
“He’s coming back.”
“I got news for you. He’s already gone. I’m guessing they got him cleaned up nice and neat and he won’t be coming back up here once he does what they want him to do. He’ll take the paycheck and when that runs out he’ll just find himself a new trick partner.”
He paused and looked at her.
“Somebody who still has something somebody would want to buy.”
Her eyes took on the distant look of someone who knows the truth when she hears it.
“Leave me alone,” she said in a hoarse whisper.
“I know I’m not telling you anything you don’t already know. You’ve been waiting for Eddie longer than you thought you would, huh? How many days you have left on the room?”
He read the answer in her eyes.
“Already past, huh? Probably giving the guy in the office blowjobs to let you stay. How long’s that going to last? Pretty soon he’ll just want the money.”
“I said go away.”
“I will. But you come with me, Sonia. Right now.”
“What do you want?”
“I want to know everything you know about Eddie Roman.”
PART FOUR
—The Silent Witness
Thirty-seven
Thursday, April 8, 9:01 A.M.
Before the judge called for the jury, Clive Royce stood and asked the court for a directed verdict of acquittal. He argued that the state had failed to live up to its duty in carrying the burden of proof. He said that the evidence presented by the prosecutors failed to cross the threshold of guilt beyond a reasonable doubt. I was ready to stand to argue the state’s side, but the judge held up her hand to signal me to stay in place. She then quickly dispensed with Royce’s motion.
“Motion denied,” Breitman said. “The court holds that the evidence presented by the prosecution is sufficient for the jury to consider. Mr. Royce, are you ready to proceed with the defense?”
“I am, Your Honor.”
“Okay, sir, then we will recall the jury now. Will you have an opening statement?”
“A brief one, Your Honor.”
“Very well, I am going to hold you to that.”
The jurors filed in and took their assigned places. On many of them I saw expressions of anticipation. I took this as a good sign, as if they were wondering how in the hell the defense would be able to dig its way out of all the evidence the state had dumped on it. It was probably all wishful thinking on my part, but I had been studying juries for most of my adult life and I liked what I saw.
After welcoming the jury back, the judge turned the courtroom over to Royce, reminded the jurors that this was an opening statement, not a listing of facts unless backed up later with testimony and evidence. Royce strode with full confidence to the lectern without a note or file in his hand. I knew he had the same philosophy as I did when it came to making opening statements. Look them in the eyes and don’t flinch and don’t back down from your theory, no matter how far-fetched or unbelievable. Sell it. If they don’t think you believe it, they never will.
His strategy of deferring his opener until the start of the defense’s case would now pay dividends. He would begin the day and his case by delivering to the jury a statement that didn’t have to be true, that could be as outlandish as anything ever heard in the courtroom. As long as he kept the jury riding along, nothing else really mattered.
“Ladies and gentlemen of the jury, good morning. Today begins a new phase of the trial. The defense phase. This is when we start to tell you our side of the story, and believe me, we have another side to almost everything the prosecution has offered you over the past three days.
“I am not going to take a lot of your time here because I am very eager, and Jason Jessup is very eager, to get to the evidence that the prosecution has either failed to find or chosen not to present to you. It doesn’t matter which, at this point; the only things that matter are that you hear it and that it allows you to see the full picture of what transpired on Windsor Boulevard on February sixteenth, nineteen eighty-six. I urge you to listen closely, to watch closely. If you do that, you will see the truth emerge.”
I looked over at the legal pad on which Maggie had been doodling while Royce spoke. In large letters she had written WINDBAG! I thought, She hasn’t seen anything yet.
“This case,” Royce continued, “is about one thing. A family’s darkest secrets. You got only a glimpse of them during the prosecution’s presentation. You got the tip of the iceberg from the prosecution, but today you will get the whole iceberg. Today you will get the cold hard truth. That being that Jason Jessup is the true victim here today. The victim of a family’s desire to hide their darkest secret.”
Maggie leaned toward me and whispered, “Brace yourself.”
I nodded. I knew exactly where we were going.
“This trial is about a monster who killed a child. A monster who defiled one young girl and was going to move on to the next when something went wrong and he killed that child. This trial is about the family that was so fearful of that monster that they went along with the plan to cover up the crime and point the finger elsewhere. At an innocent man.”
Royce pointed righteously at Jessup as he said this last line. Maggie shook her head in disgust, a calculated move for the jury.
“Jason, would you please stand up?” Royce said.
His client did as instructed and turned fully to the jury, his eyes boldly scanning from face to face, not flinching or looking away.
“Jason Jessup is an innocent man,” Royce said with the requisite outrage in his voice. “He was the fall guy. An innocent man caught in an impromptu plan to cover up the worst kind of crime, the taking of a child’s life.”
Jessup sat down and Royce paused so his words would burn into every juror’s conscience. It was highly theatrical and planned that way.
“There are two victims here,” he finally said. “Melissa Landy is a victim. She lost her life. Jason Jessup is also a victim because they are trying to take his life. The family conspired against him and then the police followed their lead. They ignored the evidence and planted their own. And now after twenty-four years, after witnesses are gone and memories have dimmed, they’ve come calling for him…”
Royce cast his head down as if tremendously burdened by the truth. I knew he would now wrap things up.
“Ladies and gentlemen of the jury, we are here for only one reason. To seek the truth. Before the end of this day, you will know the truth about Windsor Boulevard. You will know that Jason Jessup is an innocent man.”
Royce paused again, then thanked the jury and moved back to his seat. In what I was sure was a well-rehearsed moment, Jessup put his arm around his lawyer’s shoulders, gave him a squeeze and thanked him.
But the judge gave Royce little time to savor the moment or the slick delivery of his opening statement. She told him to call his first witness. I turned in my seat and saw Bosch standing in the back of the courtroom. He gave me the nod. I had sent him to get Sarah Ann Gleason from the hotel as soon as Royce had informed me upon arriving at court that she would be his first witness.
“The defense calls Sarah Ann Gleason to the stand,” Royce said, putting the accent on defense in a way that suggested that this was an unexpected turnabout.
Bosch stepped out of the courtroom and quickly returned with Gleason. He walked her down the aisle and through the gate. She went the rest of the way on her own. She again was dressed for court informally, wearing a white peasant blouse and a pair of jeans.
Gleason was reminded by the judge that she was still under oath and turned over to Royce. This time when he went to the lectern he carried a thick fi
le and a legal pad. Probably most of it—the file, at least—was just an attempt to intimidate Gleason, to make her think he had a big fat file on everything she had ever done wrong in life.
“Good morning, Ms. Gleason.”
“Good morning.”
“Now, you testified yesterday that you were the victim of sexual abuse at the hands of your stepfather, Kensington Landy, is that correct?”
“Yes.”
With the first word of her testimony I detected trepidation. She hadn’t been allowed to hear Royce’s opening statement but we had prepared Gleason for the way we thought the defense case would go. She was exhibiting fear already and this never played well with the jury. There was little Maggie and I could do. Sarah was up there on her own.
“At what point in your life did this abuse start?”
“When I was twelve.”
“And it ended when?”
“When I was thirteen. Right after my sister’s death.”
“I notice you didn’t call it your sister’s murder. You called it her death. Is there a reason for that?”
“I’m not sure what you mean.”
“Well, your sister was murdered, correct? It wasn’t an accident, was it?”
“No, it was murder.”
“Then why did you refer to it as her death just a moment ago?”
“I’m not sure.”
“Are you confused about what happened to your sister?”
Maggie was on her feet objecting before Gleason could answer.
“Counsel is badgering the witness,” she said. “He’s more interested in eliciting an emotional response than an answer.”
“Your Honor, I simply am trying to learn how and why this witness views this crime the way she does. It goes to state of mind of the witness. I am not interested in eliciting anything other than an answer to the question I asked.”
The judge weighed things for a moment before ruling.
“I’m going to allow it. The witness may answer the question.”
“I’ll repeat it,” Royce said. “Ms. Gleason, are you confused about what happened to your sister?”
During the exchange between lawyers and the judge, Gleason had found some resolve. She answered forcefully while hitting Royce with a hard stare of defiance.
The Lincoln Lawyer Collection Page 106
