The Gods of Guilt (Mickey Haller 5) (12 page)

“Detective, what would have happened if my client had decided while alone in there that he had to use the restroom and got up to leave?”

“I don’t understand. We would have allowed him to use the restroom. He never asked.”

“But what would have happened if he’d decided on his own to get up from the table at this point here and open that door? Yes or no, did you lock it when you left the room?”

“It’s not a yes or no answer.”

“I think it is.”

Forsythe objected and called my response badgering. The judge told the detective to answer the question the way he saw fit. Whitten composed himself again and fell back on the standard out: policy.

“It is the policy of the department not to allow any citizen unescorted access to work areas of police stations. That door leads directly to the detective bureau, and it would have been against policy for me to allow him to wander through the squad unattended. Yes, I locked the door.”

“Thank you, Detective. So let me see if I have this right so far. Mr. La Cosse was not a suspect in your case but he was locked in this windowless room and was under constant surveillance while in there, correct?”

“I don’t know if I would call it surveillance.”

“Then what would you call it?”

“We roll the camera whenever someone is in one of those rooms. It’s standard—”

“Policy, yes, I know. Let’s move on.”

I fast-forwarded through the video about twenty minutes, to a point where Whitten stood up from his seat and took off his jacket and draped it over the backrest. He then moved his chair in toward the table and stood behind it, leaning forward with his hands on the table.

“So you don’t know anything about her murder, is that what you’re saying?” he said to La Cosse on the screen.

I froze it right there.

“Detective Whitten, why did you take your jacket off at this point in the interrogation?”

“You mean the interview? I took my jacket off because it was getting stuffy in there.”

“But you testified on direct that the camera was hidden in the air-conditioning vent. Wasn’t the air on?”

“I don’t know if it was on or not. I hadn’t checked before we went in there.”

“Aren’t these so-called interview rooms nicknamed ‘hot boxes’ by detectives because they are used to sweat suspects and hopefully induce them to cooperate and confess?”

“I’ve never heard that, no.”

“You’ve never used that phrase yourself to describe this room?”

I pointed to the screen and asked the question with such surprise in my tone that I hoped Whitten would think I had something up my sleeve that he didn’t know about. But it was a bluff and the detective parried it by using a standard witness out.

“I don’t recall ever using the phrase, no.”

“Okay, so you took your jacket off and are now standing over Mr. La Cosse. Was that to intimidate him?”

“No, it was because I felt like standing. We had been sitting at that point for a long time.”

“Do you have hemorrhoids, Detective?”

Forsythe quickly objected again and accused me of trying to embarrass the detective. I told the judge I was simply trying to place on the record testimony that would help the court understand why the detective felt compelled to stand during the interview after only twenty minutes. The judge sustained the objection and told me to proceed without asking the witness questions of such a personal nature.

“Okay, Detective,” I said. “What about Mr. La Cosse? Could he stand up if he wanted to? Could he have stood over you while you were sitting?”

“I would not have objected,” Whitten answered.

I hoped the judge was aware that Whitten’s answers were largely bogus and part of the dance detectives engaged in every day in every police station. They walked a constitutional tightrope, trying to push things as far as they could before having to enlighten the hapless saps who sat across the table from them. I had to make a case that this was a custodial interrogation and that under these circumstances Andre La Cosse did not feel that he was free to leave. If the judge was convinced, then she would hold that La Cosse was indeed under arrest when he entered that interrogation room and should have been Mirandized. She could then throw the entire video recording out, crippling the DA’s case.

I pointed up to the screen again.

“Let’s talk about what you’re wearing there, Detective.”

I took Whitten through a full description for the record of the shoulder holster and Glock he was wearing, and then moved down to his belt, eliciting descriptions of the handcuffs, extra gun clip, badge, and pepper-spray canister that were attached to it.

“Your displaying of all of these weapons to Mr. La Cosse was for what purpose?”

Whitten shook his head like he was annoyed with me.

“No purpose. It was warm in there and I took off my jacket. I wasn’t displaying anything.”

“So you are telling the court that showing my client your gun and badge and the extra bullets and the pepper spray were not a means of intimidating Mr. La Cosse?”

“That’s exactly what I’m telling the court.”

“How about at this point?”

I moved the video forward another minute to the point that Whitten pulled the chair out from the table and put one foot up on it so he could really loom over the small table and La Cosse, who was shorter and more slightly built.

“I was not intimidating him,” Whitten said. “I was having a conversation with him.”

I checked the notes on my legal pad and made sure I had covered everything I wanted to get on the record. I didn’t think Leggoe would rule my way on this one but I thought I had a shot on appeal. Meantime, I had gotten in another round with Whitten on the witness stand. It better prepared me for trial, when I would really need to go at him.

Before ending the cross-examination I leaned over and conferred with La Cosse as a general courtesy.

“Anything I missed?” I whispered.

“I don’t think so,” La Cosse whispered back. “I think the judge knows what he was doing.”

“Let’s hope so.”

I straightened up in my seat and looked at the judge.

“I have nothing further, Your Honor.”

By prior agreement, Forsythe and I were to submit written arguments on the motion following the witness testimony. Pretty much knowing from the prelim how Whitten would testify, my document was already finished. I submitted it to Leggoe and gave copies to the court clerk and Forsythe. The prosecutor said he would have his response by the following afternoon, and Leggoe said she planned to rule promptly and well before the start of the trial. Her mention of her ruling not interrupting the trial schedule was a strong indication that my motion was going to be a loser. With its rulings in recent years, the U.S. Supreme Court had made new law when it came to Miranda cases, giving the police wider leeway on when and where suspects must be informed of their constitutional rights. I suspected that Judge Leggoe would go along to get along.

The judge adjourned the hearing and the two court deputies came to the defense table to take La Cosse back to the lockup. I asked for the chance to confer with my client for a few minutes, but they told me I would have to do it in the courtroom’s holding cell. I nodded to Andre and told him I’d be back to see him shortly.

The deputies took him away and I stood up and started repacking my briefcase, gathering the files and notebooks I had spread out on the table before the hearing. Forsythe came over to sympathize. He seemed like a decent guy and up till now had not—as far as I knew—played games with discovery or anything else.

“Must be hard,” he said.

“What’s that?” I responded.

“Just banging away at these things, knowing the success rate is what, one in fifty?”

“Maybe one in a hundred. But when you hit that one? Man, that’s a sweet day.”

Forsythe nodded. I knew he wanted to do more than commiserate on the defense attorney’s lot in life.

“So,” he finally said. “Any chance we might end this before the trial?”

He was talking about a disposition. He had sent up a balloon back in January and then another in February. I didn’t respond to the first one—which was an offer to accept a second-degree conviction, meaning La Cosse would be out in fifteen years. My ignoring the offer brought an improvement when Forsythe came around again in February. This time the DA was willing to call it a heat-of-passion case and let La Cosse plead to manslaughter. But La Cosse would still do at least ten years in the pen. As was my duty, I took the deal to him, and he turned it down flat. Ten years might as well be a hundred if you are doing time for a crime you didn’t commit, he said. He had a passion in his voice when he said it. It tipped me toward his corner, toward thoughts that maybe he was indeed innocent.

I looked at Forsythe and shook my head.

“Andre’s not getting cold feet,” I said. “He still says he didn’t do it and still wants to see if you can prove he did.”

“So no deal, then.”

“No deal.”

“Then, I guess I’ll see you at jury selection, May sixth.”

That was the date Leggoe had set for the start of the trial. She was giving us four days max to pick a jury and a day for lastminute motions and opening statements. The real show would start the following week, when the prosecution began its case.

“Oh, you might see me before that. You never know.”

I snapped my briefcase closed and headed toward the steel door to the holding cell. The court deputy escorted me back and I found La Cosse waiting alone in the cell.

“We’ll be moving him back in fifteen,” the deputy said.

“Okay, thanks,” I said.

“Knock when you’re ready to come out.”

I waited until the deputy went back through the courtroom door before turning and looking at my client through the bars.

“Andre, I’m worried. It doesn’t look like you’re eating.”

“I’m not eating. How could anyone eat when they’re in here for something they didn’t do? Besides, the food is fucking horrible. I just want to go home.”

I nodded.

“I know, I know.”

“You are going to win this, aren’t you?”

“I’m going to give it my best shot. But just so you know, the DA is still floating a deal out there if you want me to pursue it.”

La Cosse emphatically shook his head.

“I don’t even want to hear what it is. No deal.”

“That’s what I thought. So we go to trial.”

“What if we win the motion to suppress?”

I shrugged.

“Don’t get your hopes up on that. I told you, it’s a long shot. You have to expect that we are going to go to trial.”

La Cosse lowered his head until his forehead was against one of the bars that separated us. He looked like he was going to cry.

“Look, I know I’m not a good guy,” he said. “I did a lot of bad things in my life. But I didn’t do this. I didn’t.”

“And I’m going to do my best to prove it, Andre. You can count on that.”

He drew his head up to look at me eye to eye and nodded.

“That’s what Giselle said. That she could count on you.”

“She said that? Count on me for what?”

“You know, like if anything happened to her, she knew she could count on you to not let it go by.”

I paused for a moment. In the past five months La Cosse and I had had limited communication. He was in jail and I was working a full caseload. We spoke when together for court hearings and during occasional phone calls from the pink module, where he was housed at Men’s Central. Even so, I thought I had gotten everything I needed from him in order to defend him at trial. But what he had just said was new information, and it gave me pause because it was about Gloria Dayton, who still remained an enigma to me.

“Why did she tell you that?”

La Cosse shook his head slightly, as though he didn’t understand the urgency I had put into my voice.

“I don’t know. We were just talking once and she mentioned you. You know, like if anything happens to me, then Mickey Mantle will go to bat for me.”

“When did she say that?”

“I don’t remember. She just said it. She said to make sure to let you know.”

With my one free hand I gripped one of the bars and moved closer to my client.

“You told me you came to me because she said I was a good lawyer. You didn’t tell me any of this other stuff.”

“I had just been arrested for murder and was scared shitless. I wanted you to take my case.”

I held myself back from reaching through the bars and grabbing him by the collar of his jumpsuit.

“Andre, listen to me. I want you to tell me exactly what she said. Use her words.”

“She just said that if something happened to her, I had to promise to tell you. And then something did happen and I got arrested. So I called you.”

“How close was this conversation to when she was murdered?”

“I can’t remember exactly.”

“Days? Weeks? Months? Come on, Andre. It could be important.”

“I don’t know. A week, maybe longer. I can’t remember because being in this place, all the noise and the lights on all the time and the animals, it wears you down and you start losing your mind. I can’t remember things, I don’t even remember what my mother looks like anymore.”

“Okay, calm down. You think about this on the bus ride and when you’re back in your own cell. I want you to remember exactly when this conversation took place. Okay?”

“I’ll try but I don’t know.”

“Okay, you try. I have to go now. I’ll be seeing you before the trial. There’s still a lot of prep work to be done.”

“Okay. And I’m sorry.”

“For what?”

“For getting you upset about Giselle. I can tell you are.”

“Don’t worry about it. Just make sure you eat the food they give you tonight. I want you to look strong for the trial. You promise me?”

La Cosse reluctantly nodded.

“I promise.”

I headed back to the steel door.

I
walked back through the courtroom with my head down, oblivious of the hearing that Judge Leggoe had started following ours. I moved toward the rear exit, pondering the story La Cosse had just told me, that he had reached out to me following his arrest because Gloria Dayton had wanted me to know if something happened to her, not necessarily because she thought I should be his attorney. There was a significant difference in the stories and it helped ease the burden I’d carried for months in regard to Gloria. But did she want me to get this message so I would avenge her, or was it to warn me about some unseen danger? The questions put a new complexion on how I viewed things about Gloria and even myself. I now realized that Gloria might have known or at least feared that she was in danger.