Майкл Коннелли - The Law of Innocence

I shook my head in frustration even though I knew this was heading toward the outcome I had expected and, based on the morning’s discoveries, wanted.

“Your Honor,” I said. “For the record, then, I want it noted that the investigation of the missing evidence carried out by the prosecution was conducted by the same detective who was in charge of protecting the crime scene and the evidence in this case.”

“So noted, Mr. Haller,” Warfield said. “Any other matters before we adjourn?”

“Yes, Your Honor,” Berg said.

I relinquished the lectern to her and headed back to my seat, shaking my head as if frustrated by the judge’s ruling.

“Excuse me, Ms. Berg,” Warfield said. “Mr. Haller, I noted your demonstration. Are you upset with the court’s decision?”

I stopped in my tracks.

“Your Honor, I’m just frustrated,” I said. “I am trying to put together a defense and it seems that at every turn, I am thwarted. The People lost the wallet — by negligence or malfeasance doesn’t really matter — and I will pay for it. That’s all.”

“I advise counsel on both sides to keep their emotions and demonstrations in check,” Warfield said. “Particularly when we go to trial. The court will have no patience for such outbursts then, not in front of a jury.”

“Judge, I would not call it an outburst. I was just—”

“Are you going to argue with the court now as well, Mr. Haller?”

“No, Your Honor.”

I continued to my seat and Warfield tracked me with her eyes in case I so much as frowned. Finally, she broke away and looked at the prosecutor.

“Ms. Berg, continue,” she said.

“Judge, yesterday we received the first witness list from the defendant,” Berg said. “It had only two names on it — the defendant himself and his investigator. This from a defendant who has twice come before this court to complain about discovery issues, and he has the audacity to put just two names down on his witness list.”

Warfield looked like she was either weary of the constant cross fire between the prosecution and defense or was being hit with fatigue from the two martinis she’d probably had at the judges’ lunch. I was sure the alcohol was what had inspired her to snap at me. Before I could object to Berg’s complaint, Warfield held her hand up to me, indicating that she was not interested in my response.

“It’s early, Ms. Berg,” Warfield said. “We are still almost thirty days out, and there will be an update on the lists from both parties next week and every week after. Let’s wait a bit before we panic about whom he plans to call. Anything of a more serious nature?”

“No, Your Honor,” Berg said.

“No, Your Honor,” I said.

“Very well,” Warfield said. “Then we are adjourned.”

Having not had time to eat before the hearing, I went to the Little Jewel for a shrimp po’boy sandwich directly after court. I was joined by everyone on the defense team except Bosch. He was apparently off doing his own thing again and was incommunicado. I told the team that the defense had turned a corner with the case knowledge gathered in the last forty-eight hours and that it was time to start thinking in terms of presenting the case to a jury. We could clearly anticipate what the prosecution presentation would be, because it had not really changed since the start of the case. We could prepare for that but what was more important was preparing to tell our story.

A trial often comes down to who is a better storyteller, the prosecution or the defense. There is evidence, of course, but physical evidence is at first interpreted for the jury by the storyteller.

Story A: A man kills an enemy, puts the body in the trunk, and plans to bury it late at night, when there will be no one around to see.

Story B: A man is set up for the murder of a former client and unwittingly drives around with the body in the trunk until he is pulled over by police.

The physical evidence fits both stories. One might be more believable than the other when writ small. But a skilled storyteller can even the scales of justice or maybe even tip them the other way with a different interpretation of the evidence. This was where we were now and I was starting to get the visions I got before all trials. Visions of witnesses on the stand, visions of me telling my story to a jury.

“We are clearly going for third-party culpability,” I said. “And the guy we point the finger at is going to be Louis Opparizio. I doubt he pulled the trigger but he gave the order. So he is our fall guy and our number one witness. We need to find him. We need to paper him. We need to make sure he shows up for court.”

Jennifer Aronson shook her hands palms out like she was warding off a swarm of bees.

“Can we just back up?” she asked. “Walk me through this like I’m a juror. What are we saying happened? I mean, I get it. Opparizio killed Scales or had Scales killed and then tried to frame you for it. But can we say yet exactly how this went down?”

“Nothing is exact at this point,” I said. “And we have a lot of holes to fill — that’s why we’re meeting right now. But I can tell you what I think went down and what the evidence — once we have it all — is going to prove.”

“Yes, please,” Lorna said. “I’m with Jen. I’m having a hard time seeing this.”

“Not a problem,” I said. “Let’s go through it slowly. A couple things to start with first. Number one is Louis Opparizio’s enmity for me. Nine years ago I sandbagged him in court, revealing his mob connections and shady dealings in the foreclosure world. In that case, he was a straw man. He was the shiny bait I put out in front of the jury and they went for it. Though he was not the killer I portrayed him as in court, he was involved in some shady shit, the government took notice, and he and his mob backers ended up forfeiting major millions when the Federal Trade Commission reversed a hundred-million-dollar merger he had just completed. I think all of that explains why he would hold a grudge against me. Not only did I expose him in public but I cost him and his mob backers a ton of money.”

“No doubt,” Cisco said. “I’m surprised he waited until now to make a move against you. Nine years is a long time.”

“Well, maybe he was waiting until he had the perfect frame,” I said. “Because I’m in a tight box.”

“That’s for sure,” Lorna said.

“Okay, so the second building block of the case is the victim,” I said. “Sam Scales, con man extraordinaire. Our story is that these two — Opparizio and Scales — intersected at BioGreen. They were bleeding the beast, operating the long con, when something went wrong. Opparizio had to take out Scales but also had to make sure the investigation came nowhere near BioGreen. So I became his fall guy. He somehow knew of my history with Scales and that it ended badly. He sticks Sam’s body in my trunk and I go down for it while BioGreen stays clean and supposedly keeps pumping out that recycled fuel the government loves so much.”

I looked at the three faces around the table.

“Questions?” I asked.

“I have a couple,” Lorna said. “First, what was the con they were pulling?”

“It’s called bleeding the beast, ” I said. “Scamming the government — the beast, that is — out of federal subsidies for producing green gold: recycled oil.”

“Whoa,” Lorna said. “Sounds like Sam really came up in the world. That’s a long way from the Internet scams he was known for.”

“Good point,” I said. “That is something that doesn’t fit with what I know about him, but I’m just telling you my theory so far. He had green gold under his fingernails. One thing we do need to find out is whether Sam went to Opparizio with the scam idea, or was Sam simply recruited into the ongoing operation?”