Michael Connelly - The Gods of Guilt

Or had he?

Seven years had gone by. It seemed beyond the realm of possibility to consider that Moya had reached out from federal prison to exact vengeance on Gloria Dayton. But no matter how far-fetched the idea, it might be useful in the defense of Andre La Cosse. My job would be to make the jury second-guess the prosecution. To make at least one of the gods of guilt think for himself or herself and say, Hey, wait a minute, what about this guy up there in the desert, rotting in prison because of this woman? Maybe…

“Did you see any hearings in the docket on a motion to produce a witness or a motion to suppress based on lack of probable cause? Anything like that?”

“Yes, that was part of the first appeal on court error. The judge refused a motion to produce any confidential informants in the case.”

“He was fishing. There was only one CI and that was Gloria. What about anything on the docket that is under seal? Did you see anything like that?”

Judges usually sealed records pertaining to confidential informants but the documents themselves were often referenced by number or code on PACER so at least one knew that such records existed.

“No,” Jennifer said. “Just the PSR.”

The presentencing report on Moya. Those were always kept under seal as well. I thought about things for a moment.

“Okay, I don’t want to drop this. I want to see the transcript of that battle over confidential informants and probable cause. You are going to have to go to Pasadena and pull hard files. Who knows? Maybe we get lucky and there is something in there we can use. The DEA or FBI had to testify at some point about how they got to that hotel and to that room. I want to know what they said.”

“You think Gloria’s name could have been revealed?”

“That would be too easy and too careless. But if there is a reference to a specific CI we might have something to work with. Also, ask for the PSR. Maybe after seven years they might let you have a look at it.”

“That’s a long shot. Those are supposed to stay sealed forever.”

“Doesn’t hurt to ask.”

“Well, I can head to Pasadena right now. I’ll get back to these Gloria files later.”

“No, Pasadena can wait. I want you to go downtown instead. Are you still up for sitting in for me on the Deirdre Ramsey case?”

“Absolutely!”

She practically jumped through the phone.

“Don’t get too excited,” I quickly counseled. “Like I said this morning, the case is a dog. You just have to ask the judge for a little bit more time and patience. Tell him we know it’s an STD case and we are close to convincing Deirdre that it’s in her very best interest to take the state’s offer and get this behind her. And you have to persuade Shelly Albert, the prosecutor, to keep the offer on the table another couple of weeks. That’s it, just another couple weeks is all, okay?”

The offer was for Ramsey to plead to aiding and abetting and to testify against her boyfriend and his partner in the robbery. In exchange she’d get a three- to five-year sentence. With gain time and time already served she’d be out in a year.

“I can do that,” Jennifer said. “But I’ll probably skip the syph reference, if you don’t mind.”

“What?”

“Syphilis. You called it an STD case. Sexually transmitted disease?”

I smiled and looked out the window. We were cruising through Hancock Park. It was all big houses, big lawns, and tall hedges.

“Jennifer, I didn’t mean that. STD is shorthand from my days at the public defender’s. It means straight to disposition. When I was with the PD twenty years ago, that’s how we divided our caseloads. STDs and STTs—straight to dispo or straight to trial. Maybe now they call them STPs—straight to plea—to avoid confusion.”

“Oh, well, now I’m embarrassed.”

“Not as much as you’d be if you’d said to Judge Companioni that the case has syphilis.”

We both laughed at that. Jennifer had one of the brightest and hungriest legal minds I had ever encountered but she was still gaining practical experience and learning the routine and language of the criminal beat. I knew that if she stuck with it, she would eventually become the state’s worst nightmare when she walked into court.

“Couple more things,” I said, getting back to business. “Try to walk into chambers ahead of Shelly and grab the seat that will put you on the judge’s left.”

“Okay,” she said hesitantly. “Why?”

“It’s a left-brain right-brain thing. People are more agreeable toward people on their left.”

“Come on.”

“I mean it. Whenever I stand in front of a jury for closing argument, I move as far right as I can get. So for most of them I’m coming from their left.”

“That’s crazy.”

“Try it. You’ll see.”

“It’s impossible to prove.”

“I’m telling you. There have been scientific tests and studies. You can Google it.”

“I don’t have time. What was the other thing?”

“If you start feeling comfortable enough with the judge, tell him that what will really help us put this to bed is if Shelly drops cooperation from the plea agreement. If Deirdre doesn’t have to testify against her boyfriend, I think we can make this happen. We’re even willing to keep the same sentencing terms, just no cooperation. And tell the judge that Shelly doesn’t need it. She has all three of them on wiretaps talking about the whole thing. And she’s got the DNA from the rape kit matching to the boyfriend. It’s a slam dunk even without Deirdre’s testimony. She does not need Deirdre.”

“Okay, I’ll try. But I was sort of hoping this might be my first criminal trial.”

“You don’t want this to be your first trial. You want that one to be a winner. Besides, eighty percent of criminal law is figuring out how to stay out of trial. And the other half—”

“Is all mental. Yeah, I get that.”

“Good luck.”

“Thanks, boss.”

“Don’t call me boss. We’re associates, remember?”

“Right.”

I put the phone away and started thinking about how I would handle the interview with Stacey Campbell. We were passing the Farmers Market now and were almost there.

After a while I noticed that Earl kept looking at me in the rearview. He did this when he had something to say.

“What’s up, Earl?” I finally asked.

“I was wondering about what you said on the phone. About with people on the left side and how that works.”

“Yeah.”

“Well, one time—you know, back when I was working the streets—I had this guy come up with a gun to rip off my stash.”

“Yeah?”

“And the thing was, back then somebody was going around popping guys for their cash and stash, you know? Just popping them in the head and grabbing it all up. And I was thinking that this was the guy and he was about to do me.”

“Scary. What happened?”

“Well, I talked him out of it. I just talked about my daughter just bein’ born and all. I gave him my stuff and he just ran away. Then later there was an arrest in those other murders and I saw his picture on the TV and it was the guy. The guy that ripped me off.”

“You got lucky there, Earl.”

He nodded and looked at me in the mirror again.

“And the thing is, he was on my right and I was on his left when he came up, and I talked him out of it. It’s kind of like what you were saying there. Like he agreed with me not to kill my ass.”

I nodded knowingly.

“You make sure you tell Bullocks that story next time you see her.”

“I will.”

“All right, Earl. I’m glad you talked him out of it.”

“Yeah, me, too. My moms and daughter, too.”

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