The Crossing (11 page)

He gave her a hard look and she got the message. She stood up, insulted again, and went to the door and knocked. As soon as the guard opened the door she stepped out. Bosch watched her go and then turned back to Foster.

“Mr. Foster, I’m not here because I want you to be my friend. And you don’t need me to be yours. But I’ll tell you this. If you are innocent of this crime, then you don’t want anybody else but me on it. Because if you’re innocent, that means there is somebody else out there, not in jail, who did this. And I’m going to find him.”

Bosch opened the file and slid one of the crime scene photos across the table. It was a close-up color shot of Alexandra Parks’s brutalized and unrecognizable face. The reports in the murder book said that when her husband found her, a pillow had been placed over her face. In the psychological profile of the crime scene contained in the murder book, it was suggested that the killer did this because he was ashamed of what he had done and was covering it up. If that was the case, Bosch was expecting a reaction from Foster when he saw the horror of the crime.

He got one. Foster glanced down at the photo and then jerked his head back and looked up at the ceiling.

“Oh my lord! Oh my lord!”

Bosch watched him closely, studying his reaction. He believed that in the next few seconds he would decide whether Foster had murdered Alexandra Parks. He was a one-man jury reading the nuances of facial expression before rendering a verdict.

“Take it away,” Foster said.

“No, I want you to look at it,” Bosch said.

“I can’t.”

Without bringing his eyes down from the ceiling Foster pointed at the photo on the table.

“I can’t believe this. They say I did that, that I would do that to a woman’s face.”

“That’s right.”

“My mother will be at the trial and they’ll show that?”

“Probably. Unless the judge says it’s too prejudicial—good chance of that, I’d say.”

Foster made some kind of keening sound from the back of his throat. A wounded animal sound.

“Look at me, Da’Quan,” Bosch said. “Look at me.”

Foster slowly brought his head and gaze down and looked at Bosch, maintaining an eye-line focus that did not include the photo on the table. Bosch read pain and sympathy in his eyes. He had sat across the table from many murderers in his time as a detective. Most of them, especially the psychopaths, were very good liars. But in the end it was always the eyes that betrayed them. Psychopaths are cold. They can talk sympathy but they can’t show it in their eyes. Bosch always looked at their eyes.

“Did you do this, Da’Quan?” Bosch asked.

“I didn’t,” Foster said.

What Bosch believed he saw in Da’Quan Foster’s eyes now was the truth. He reached over and flipped the photograph over so it was no longer a threat.

“Okay, you can relax about it now,” Bosch said.

Foster’s shoulders were slumped and he looked wrung out. It was dawning on him, possibly for the first time, that he stood accused of the worst kind of crime.

“I think I believe you, Da’Quan. That’s a good thing. What is bad is that your DNA was found
in
the victim and we need to explain that.”

“It wadn’t mine.”

“That’s just a denial and that doesn’t work as an explanation. The science is against you so far. The DNA makes this a slam-dunk case for the prosecution, Da’Quan. You’re a dead man walking unless we can explain it.”

“I can’t explain it. I know it wasn’t from me. That’s it.”

“Then how did it get there, Da’Quan?”

“I don’t know! It’s like planted evidence.”

“Planted by who?”

“I don’t know!”

“The cops?”

“Somebody.”

“Were you there that night? In this lady’s house?”

“Hell, no!”

“Then where were you?”

“At the studio. I was painting.”

“No, you weren’t. That’s bullshit. The Sheriff’s Department has a witness. He says he went by the studio. You weren’t there.”

“Yes, I was.”

“Their witness is going to get on the stand at your trial and testify that he went to the studio to see you but you weren’t there. You add that to the DNA and you’re done. All over. You understand?”

Bosch pointed to the overturned photo.

“A crime like that, no judge and no jury’s going to have a second thought about giving you the death penalty. You’ll go the way Tookie went.”

He let that sink in for a moment before continuing in a softer voice.

“You want me to help you, Da’Quan? I need to know everything. Good and bad. You can lie to your lawyer but you can’t lie to me. I can read it. So one more time, where were you? You don’t tell me and I’m out of here. What’s it going to be?”

Foster lowered his eyes to the table. Bosch waited him out. He could tell Foster was about to break and tell the story.

“All right,” he said. “This is the deal. I was up there in Hollywood. And I was with someone, not my wife.”

“Okay,” Bosch said. “Who is she?”

“Not a she,” Foster said.

H
aller missed the entire session with Foster. He was either a celebrity lawyer or a notorious lawyer, depending on how you looked at it. He had received the ultimate imprimatur of L.A. acceptance—a movie about one of his cases starring no less than Matthew McConaughey. He had also run for district attorney in the last election cycle and lost the race because of a scandal that erupted when a client he had previously cleared of a DUI charge killed two people and himself while driving drunk. So either way he was news, and the officers at city jail helpfully stalled his release until the media could be fully notified of his arrest, his mug shot could be uploaded to the Internet, and an assemblage of reporters, photographers, and videographers could muster outside the jail’s release door to document his walk of shame.

Bosch accompanied Jennifer Aronson, acting as Haller’s lawyer, into the jail to warn him about what awaited outside. She had a plan that involved Bosch pulling up to the door in his Cherokee and allowing Haller to step out quickly and jump in the back. Bosch would then speed away. But Haller said he wanted no part in such a cowardly exit. Once he collected his personal property, he pulled the tie out of his suit pocket and clipped it on. He smoothed it down on his chest and then stepped through the release door with his chin held high. He walked directly to the media cluster, waited a beat until all lenses were focused and microphones positioned, and then started speaking.

“I just want to say that I have been the target of law enforcement intimidation practices,” he began. “But I am not intimidated. I was set up and taken down. I was not driving while intoxicated and there is no evidence that I was. I’ll be fighting these charges and will ultimately be proven innocent. They will not deter me from the work I do defending the underdogs of our society. Thank you.”

There was a clamor of voices as questions were hurled at him. Bosch heard one woman’s deep voice drown out the others.

“Why are they trying to intimidate you?”

“I don’t know yet,” Haller said. “I have a number of cases in which I plan to put the police on trial in defense of my client. They know that. This could have come from any quarter, as far as I’m concerned.”

The same woman yelled a follow-up.

“Could it have anything to do with the Lexi Parks case?”

“I don’t know,” Haller said. “I just know that what was done to me was not right. And it will be corrected.”

Another reporter called out. Bosch recognized him from the
Times
but couldn’t remember his name. But he had sources in the police department and usually had valid information.

“Your blood was drawn at Queen of Angels,” he said. “The blood-alcohol content was measured at point-one-one, according to the LAPD. That is beyond the legal limit.”

Haller nodded as though he knew what was coming and relished the chance to attack the accusation.

“The measurement was point-oh-six—check your source on that, Tyler,” he said. “The LAPD then used a faulty B-A-C extrapolation formula to push it past to the point-oh-eight threshold at the time of arrest. This formula will not bear the scrutiny of the courts and I will be exonerated.”

Bosch needed to go get the car and bring it around but he wanted to watch Haller work. He had such ease and control with the crowd of reporters. Unintimidated, undaunted. Bosch marveled at it. No wonder he was a killer in front of a jury.

“But you have been arrested for DUI in the past, isn’t that so?”

It was a question from a different reporter. Haller shook his head.

“This isn’t about the past,” he said. “This is about right now and the question of whether we want our police department to be targeting law-abiding citizens. The intrusion of the government into our lives is pervasive. Where do we make a stand? I’m making mine right here.”

The questions started getting repetitive or bizarrely far afield. It was pretty clear the reporters weren’t going to run out of things to ask until Haller ran out of responses. The assemblage was a mixture of legitimate local news media and softer entertainment reporters. Haller was one of those rare people with a foot in both camps. The last question Bosch heard before turning a corner to head toward the parking garage was someone asking Haller if he had been in touch with Matthew McConaughey and if there would be a sequel to
The Lincoln Lawyer
film.

Haller said he didn’t know.

H
aller was starved, having passed on the baloney sandwich and apple offered at the jail for breakfast. But he wanted to get his car and cell phone back before eating.

Aronson split off to go back to work on her own courthouse caseload and Bosch drove Haller to the Official Police Garage in Hollywood to reclaim his Lincoln Town Car. Along the way Haller told him about the arrest and how he was sure the plainclothes officers who popped him had been lying in wait. Nothing Bosch heard in the story supported that and it appeared to him to be a pure case of paranoia. He did think it was curious that he had been pulled over by officers in plain clothes. He wondered if Haller had strayed into a vice operation.

The OPG contract belonged to Hollywood Tow on Mansfield Avenue. Haller paid the impound fees without dispute and the attendant handed him his car keys. Haller stared at them in his hand and then looked at the attendant.

“Did you people break into my car?” he asked.

The man looked at the document Haller had just signed.

“No, sir, we didn’t,” the man said. “No broken locks, it says the vehicle was OOA—open on arrival. We track that sort of stuff, sir. You want to challenge that or make a complaint, I can give you the paperwork to fill out.”

“Really? I bet they’d jump right on it. Tell you what, just tell me where the car is.”

“Space twenty-three. Down the main aisle and on your left.”

Bosch followed Haller to the car. The first thing he did was grab his phone off the front seat and check to see if it had been tampered with. It was password locked and appeared to have been untouched. He then popped the trunk and looked through three side-by-side file boxes, ticking the tabs with his finger as if to make sure all the files were there. He then went to the backseat and grabbed his briefcase. He opened it on the roof of the car and checked its contents.

“They had plenty of time to copy anything they wanted,” he said.

“They?” Bosch asked. “Who?”

“Whoever. The cops that pulled me over. Whoever sent them.”

“You sure you want to play it this way?”

“How else should I play it?”

“I think you’re being a little paranoid. You were in there drinking for three hours by my count.”

“I was pacing myself and I wasn’t inebriated and certainly wasn’t impaired. When they pulled me over I got out and locked the car. With the keys inside it. Now the guy in there tells me it was unlocked when the tow truck arrived. Explain that.”

Bosch said nothing. Haller snapped the briefcase closed and looked at him.

“Welcome to the other side of the aisle, Harry. Let’s go eat. I’m fucking starved.”

He stepped over and closed the trunk. Bosch saw that the license plate said IWALKEM.

He reminded himself that he never wanted to be seen riding in the car with Haller.

They drove separately to Pink’s on La Brea and grabbed one of the tables in the back room after getting their food. It was early for lunch and the line was manageable. While Haller ravenously ate his foot-long, Bosch told him about his visit with Da’Quan Foster and what Foster had said about his broken alibi. Haller didn’t bother to wipe the mustard off his mouth until he had finished the hot dog.

“Hard to believe he’d be willing to go to prison over a secret like that,” Bosch said.

“He’s a proud guy and he’s got standing in the community. Plus the wife and kids. He didn’t want to see all of that undone. Besides, I think when you’re innocent, you always think deep down that you’ll be saved, that the truth will set you free and all of that bullshit. Even an old gangbanger like him believes the fantasy.”

Bosch pushed his untouched hot dog across the table to Haller and shook his head.

“Bullshit.”

“I know it is.”

“No, I’m not talking about the truth setting you free. I’m talking about your bullshit.”

“Me? What bullshit?”

“Come on. This whole thing was a setup. You set me up.”

“I’m not seeing that.”

“You led me down the path, Mick. Put the scent in my nose and knew I’d eventually follow it to county and talk to Da’Quan. You knew they have a witness who knocks down his alibi. But you already knew the real story. You knew it all along.”

Haller paused after a bite of the second hot dog. He tried to smile with his mouth full. Then he swallowed and wiped the mustard off his mouth with a napkin.

“How ’bout next time you give me your hot dog you don’t put so much mustard on it?”

“I’ll remember that. Don’t change the subject. What I don’t understand is, if Da’Quan told you the truth about his alibi, why’d he start out lying to me about it?”