The Brass Verdict (40 page)

“Okay, Mick.”

He stood up and so did I. He slapped me on the shoulder with the file and then tucked it into the waistband at the back of his jeans. He descended the steps and I walked to the edge of the deck to look down on him as he mounted his horse by the curb, dropped it into neutral and silently started to glide down Fareholm toward Laurel Canyon Boulevard.

I then looked up and out at the city and thought about the moves I was making, my personal situation and my professional deceit in front of the judge in court. I didn’t ponder it all too long and I didn’t feel guilty about any of it. I was defending a man I believed was innocent of the murders he was charged with but complicit in the reason they had occurred. I had a sleeper on the jury whose placement was directly related to the murder of my predecessor. And I had a detective watching over me whom I was holding back on and couldn’t be sure was considering my safety ahead of his own desire to break open the case.

I had all of that and I didn’t feel guilty or fearful about anything. I felt like a guy flipping a three-hundred-pound sled in midair. It might not be a sport but it was dangerous as hell and it did what I hadn’t been able to do in more than a year’s time. It shook off the rust and put the charge back in my blood.

It gave it a fierce momentum.

I heard the sound of the pipes on Cisco’s panhead finally fire up. He had made it all the way down to Laurel Canyon before kicking over the engine. The throttle roared deeply as he headed into the night.

PART FIVE

—Take the Nickel

Forty-seven

O
n Monday morning I had my Corneliani suit on. I was sitting next to my client in the courtroom and was ready to begin to present his defense. Jeffrey Golantz, the prosecutor, sat at his table, ready to thwart my efforts. And the gallery behind us was maxed out once again. But the bench in front of us was empty. The judge was sequestered in his chambers and running almost an hour behind his own nine-o’clock start time. Something was wrong or something had come up, but we had not yet been informed. We had seen sheriff’s deputies escort a man I didn’t recognize into chambers and then out again but there had been no word on what was going on.

“Hey, Jeff, what do you think?” I finally asked across the aisle.

Golantz looked over at me. He was wearing his nice black suit, but he had been wearing it every other day to court and it wasn’t as impressive anymore. He shrugged.

“No idea,” he said.

“Maybe he’s back there reconsidering my request for a directed verdict.”

I smiled. Golantz didn’t.

“I’m sure he is,” he said with his best prosecutorial sarcasm.

The prosecution’s case had strung out through the entire previous week. I had helped with a couple of protracted cross-examinations but for the most part it had been Golantz engaging in overkill. He kept the medical examiner who had conducted the autopsies on Mitzi Elliot and Johan Rilz on the witness stand for nearly an entire day, describing in excruciating detail how and when the victims died. He kept Walter Elliot’s accountant on the stand for half a day, explaining the finances of the Elliot marriage and how much Walter stood to lose in a divorce. And he kept the sheriff’s forensic tech on for nearly as long, explaining his finding of high levels of gunshot residue on the defendant’s hands and clothes.

In between these anchor witnesses he conducted shorter examinations of lesser witnesses and then finally finished his case Friday afternoon with a tearjerker. He put Mitzi Elliot’s lifelong best friend on the stand. She testified about Mitzi confiding in her the plans to divorce her husband as soon as the prenuptial agreement vested. She told of the fight between husband and wife when the plan was revealed and of seeing bruises on Mitzi Elliot’s arms the next day. She never stopped crying during her hour on the stand and continually veered into hearsay testimony that I objected to.

As is routine, I asked the judge as soon as the prosecution rested for a directed verdict of acquittal. I argued that the state had not come close to establishing a prima facie case against Elliot. But as is also routine, the judge flatly denied my motion and said the trial would move to the defense phase promptly at nine a.m. the following Monday. I spent the weekend strategizing and preparing my two anchor witnesses: Dr. Shamiram Arslanian, my GSR expert, and a jet-lagged French police captain named Malcolm Pepin. It was now Monday morning and I was locked and loaded and ready to go. But there was no judge on the bench to let me.

“What’s going on?” Elliot whispered to me.

I shrugged.

“Your guess is as good as mine. Most times when the judge doesn’t come out, it has nothing to do with the case at hand. Usually, it’s about the next trial on his calendar.”

Elliot wasn’t appeased. A deep furrow had settled into the center of his brow. He knew something was up. I turned and looked back into the gallery. Julie Favreau was sitting three rows back with Lorna. I gave them a wink and Lorna sent back a thumbs-up. I swept the rest of the gallery and noticed that behind the prosecution table, there was a gap in the shoulder-to-shoulder spectators. No Germans. I was about to ask Golantz where Rilz’s family members were, when a uniformed sheriff’s deputy walked up to the rail behind the prosecutor.

“Excuse me.”

Golantz turned and the deputy beckoned him with a document he was holding.

“Are you the prosecutor?” the deputy said. “Who do I talk to about this?”

Golantz got up and walked over to the rail. He took a quick look at the document and handed it back.

“It’s a defense subpoena. Are you Deputy Stallworth?”

“That’s right.”

“Then you’re in the right spot.”

“No, I’m not. I didn’t have anything to do with this case.”

Golantz took the subpoena back and studied it. I could see the wheels begin turning, but it was going to be too late when he figured things out.

“You weren’t on the scene at the house? What about the perimeter or traffic control?”

“I was home asleep, man. I work midnight shift.”

“Hold it a second.”

Golantz went back to his desk and opened a file. I saw him check the final witness list I had submitted two weeks before.

“What is this, Haller?”

“What’s what? He’s on there.”

“This is bullshit.”

“No, it’s not. He’s been on there for two weeks.”

I got up and went to the rail. I held out my hand.

“Deputy Stallworth, I’m Michael Haller.”

Stallworth refused to shake my hand. Embarrassed in front of the whole gallery, I pressed on.

“I’m the one who summoned you. If you wait out in the hall, I’ll try to get you in and out as soon as court starts. There’s some sort of delay with the judge. But sit tight and I’ll get to you.”

“No, this is wrong. I didn’t have anything to do with this case. I just got off duty and I’m going home.”

“Deputy Stallworth, there is no mistake here and even if there were, you can’t walk out on a subpoena. Only the judge can release you at my request. You go home and you’re going to make him mad. I don’t think you want him mad at you.”

The deputy huffed like he was being put out in a big way. He looked over at Golantz for help but the prosecutor was holding a cell phone to his ear and whispering into it. I had a feeling it was an emergency call.

“Look,” I said to Stallworth, “just go out into the hall and I’ll—”

I heard my name along with the prosecutor’s called from the front of the courtroom. I turned and saw the clerk signaling us to the door that led to the judge’s chambers. Finally, something was happening. Golantz ended his call and got up. I turned from Stallworth and followed Golantz toward the judge’s chambers.

The judge was sitting behind his desk in his black robe. He appeared ready to go as well, but something was holding him back.

“Gentlemen, sit down,” he said.

“Judge, did you want the defendant in here?” I asked.

“No, I don’t think that’s necessary. Just have a seat and I’ll tell you what’s going on.”

Golantz and I sat side by side in front of the judge. I could tell that Golantz was silently steaming over the Stallworth subpoena and what it might mean. Stanton leaned forward and clasped his hands together on top of a folded piece of paper on the desk in front of him.

“We have an unusual situation involving juror misconduct,” he said. “It is still … developing and I apologize for keeping you out there in the dark.”

He stopped there and we both looked at him, wondering if we were supposed to leave now and go back to the courtroom, or if we could ask questions. But Stanton continued after a moment.

“My office received a letter Thursday addressed personally to me. Unfortunately, I didn’t get a chance to open it until after court on Friday — kind of an end-of-the-week catch-up session after everybody was sent home. The letter said — well, here is the letter. I’ve already handled it but don’t either of you touch it.”

He unfolded the piece of paper he’d weighted with his hands and allowed us to read it. I stood up so I could lean over the desk. Golantz was tall enough — even sitting down — that he didn’t have to.

Judge Stanton, you should know that juror number seven is not who you think he is and not who he says he is. Check Lockheed and check his prints. He’s got an arrest record.

The letter looked like it had come out of a laser printer. There were no other markings on the page other than the two creases from where it had been folded.

I sat back down.

“Did you keep the envelope it came in?” I asked.

“Yes,” Stanton said. “No return address and the postmark is Hollywood. I’m going to have the sheriff’s lab take a look at the note and the envelope.”

“Judge, I hope you haven’t spoken to this juror,” Golantz said. “We should be present and part of any questioning. This could just be a ploy by someone to get that juror off the panel.”

I expected Golantz to rush to the juror’s defense. As far as he was concerned, number seven was a blue juror.

I rushed to my own defense.

“He’s talking about this being a ploy by the defense and I object to the accusation.”

The judge quickly held his hands up in a calming gesture.

“Just hold your horses, both of you. I didn’t talk to number seven yet. I spent the weekend thinking about how to proceed with it when I came to court today. I conferred with a few other judges on the matter and I was fully prepared to bring it up with counsel present this morning. The only problem is, juror number seven didn’t show up today. He’s not here.”

That brought a pause to both Golantz and me.

“He’s not here?” Golantz said. “Did you send deputies to —?”

“Yes, I sent court deputies to his home, and his wife told them that he was at work but she didn’t know anything about court or a trial or anything like that. They went over to Lockheed and found the man and brought him here a few minutes ago. It wasn’t him. He was not juror number seven.”

“Judge, you’re losing me,” I said. “I thought you said they found him at work.”

The judge nodded.

“I know. I did. This is beginning to sound like Laurel and Hardy and that ‘Who’s on first?’ thing.”

“Abbott and Costello,” I said.

“What?”

“Abbott and Costello. They did the ‘Who’s on first?’ thing.”

“Whichever. The point is, juror number seven was not juror number seven.”

“I’m still not following you, Judge,” I said.

“We had number seven down in the computer as Rodney L. Banglund, engineer from Lockheed, resident of Palos Verdes. But the man who has been sitting for two weeks in seat number seven is not Rodney Banglund. We don’t know who he was and now he’s missing.”

“He took Banglund’s place but Banglund didn’t know about it,” Golantz said.

“Apparently,” the judge said. “Banglund — the real one — is being interviewed about it now, but when he was in here he didn’t seem to know anything about this. He said he never got a jury summons in the first place.”

“So his summons was sort of hijacked and used by this unknown person?” I said.

The judge nodded.

“So it appears. The question is why, and the sheriff’s department will hopefully get that answered.”

“What does this do to the trial?” I asked. “Do we have a mistrial?”

“I don’t think so. I think we bring the jury out, we explain that number seven’s been excused for reasons they don’t need to know about, we drop in the first alternate and go from there. Meantime, the sheriff’s department quietly makes damn sure everybody else in that box is exactly who they are supposed to be. Mr. Golantz?”

Golantz nodded thoughtfully before speaking.

“This is all rather shocking,” he said. “But I think the state would be prepared to continue — as long as we find out that this whole thing stops at juror number seven.”

“Mr. Haller?”

I nodded my approval. The session had gone as I had hoped.

“I’ve got witnesses from as far as Paris in town and ready to go. I don’t want a mistrial. My client doesn’t want a mistrial.”

The judge sealed the deal with a nod.

“Okay, go on back out there and we’ll get this thing going in ten minutes.”

On the way down the hall to the courtroom Golantz whispered a threat to me.

“He’s not the only one who’s going to investigate this, Haller.”

“Yeah, what’s that supposed to mean?”

“It means when we find this bastard we’re also going to find out what he was doing on the jury. And if there is any tie to the defense, then I’m go—”

I pushed by him toward the door to the courtroom. I didn’t need to listen to the rest.

“Good for you, Jeff,” I said as I entered the courtroom.

I didn’t see Stallworth and hoped the deputy had gone out into the hallway as I had instructed and was waiting. Elliot was all over me when I got to the defense table.

“What happened? What’s going on?”

I used my hand to signal him to keep his voice down. I then whispered to him.

“Juror number seven didn’t show up today and the judge looked into it and found out he was a phony.”