“If my client had actually committed a murder, he is more than capable of getting rid of any evidence of the crime. He lives alone. He had thirteen or fourteen hours before he was expected at the office the next morning. In that time, he could have gotten rid of the body, sanitized the scene, established an alibi. Hell, he could have invited twelve people out to dinner at Spago and still had time to get rid of the evidence and then get on a plane to Guadalajara.
“So what are the cops saying? He killed the girl, left her in his bed, buried the gun in a pile of mulch fifteen feet from his door? That’s nuts, Your Honor. If he was going to fly to Mexico, why didn’t he do it?
“Because Jack Morgan didn’t kill Colleen Molloy. He called the police and he cooperated with them fully. Those are the actions of an innocent man.”
CHAPTER 61
Caine had done a powerful-correction, a phenomenal -job. My gratitude to him was so overwhelming, I almost broke down. But Judge Coffin was deadpan. He appeared to be unmoved by Caine’s speech.
Coffin said, “Mr. Morgan, you’re charged with felony murder with special circumstances. How do you plead?”
“Not guilty, Your Honor.”
The judge said, “Uh-huh.” Then he leaned over his laptop and poked at the keys.
Judge Coffin was a two-finger typist, and while he hunted and pecked, noise rose from the gallery like a typhoon boiling up the coastline. A fight broke out in the aisles and sheriffs put it down. The judge banged his gavel four times and glared.
There was silence and then Judge Coffin looked down at me.
“Mr. Morgan, do you intend to flee?”
“No, Your Honor.”
“Okay. Well, I’d say we have an unusual situation, Mr. Morgan being an upright citizen who called the police to report the crime. Still, we’ve got special circumstances.”
The judge scratched his chin. He had our attention.
“I’ve found a precedent in Meyer versus Spinogotti.”
Savino looked puzzled. “Wasn’t that an abduction case, Your Honor?”
“Bingo, Mr. Savino. Pregnant victim. Mr. Caine, I want Mr. Morgan’s plane disabled and secured so that it cannot be moved. Mr. Morgan, you will surrender your pilot’s license and your license to carry a weapon; also your passport.
“When those conditions are met, find a bail bondsman who will put up twenty million dollars and off you go.”
The gavel came down.
The bailiff called the next case. Caine said to me, “Don’t worry, Jack. I’m on it. You’ll be home tomorrow.”
Was Caine right? Or was he just giving me false hope?
A deputy was at my side. He jerked my arm, and I walked with him out the back door of the courtroom. I turned just as the door closed. I was hoping to see Justine, but I saw Fescoe.
He was in a huddle with Tandy and Ziegler and Eddie Savino. I could tell by the looks shot in my direction that they were discussing me.
It was a fair guess that the prosecution was disappointed that I might make bail.
I was loaded into the holding cell behind the courtroom, where I was chained again to three other men. I sweated in silence for six hours, then returned by bus to the men’s jail, where I was shooed into my cell.
We had a new cell mate.
Another talker.
The new guy’s name was Vincent, and he looked like he’d been sleeping over a grate. He got rolling fast and told me about what he called “an almost criminal imbalance in the real estate market” that wouldn’t straighten out until 2015 at the earliest. He talked about the boomers, the pressure they’d put on all things related to the economy and the current entitlement programs. We wouldn’t see a bull market until we were wearing orthopedic shoes, he said.
He still had a sense of humor. It was admirable.
“You’re in finance?” I asked politely.
“I drive.”
“Drive?”
“A cab. I didn’t pay a couple of tickets. They pulled me in here for that. You believe it?”
“I’m sorry to hear it.”
“When we get out of here, if you need a cab, just remember 1-800 Call Vin.”
I said, “Sure. I can remember that.”
I thought about Justine, the way she’d looked at me in the courtroom. I’d felt the pain and her deep disappointment. I thought about lying with her under cool sheets in a big bed.
Early the next morning, the first sound I heard was the loudspeaker, feedback screeching, the blasting voice echoing across the pods.
This time my name was called.
CHAPTER 62
Caine was waiting for me on the freedom side of the chain-link barrier. He put an arm around me and hurried me quickly through the seething throng of bikers and gangbangers outside the jail.
The car was waiting for us. Aldo sprang from the front seat and moved fast to open the back door for me.
“You okay, Jack?”
“No worse than if I got hit by a car and slept it off for a couple of days in a drainage ditch,” I said.
Aldo grinned. “Oh, man, that’s bad. But we’ve got you now. Listen, there’s coffee for you in back.”
Had it only been five days since Aldo had picked me up at the airport and driven me home? It felt like at least a decade had passed.
Caine got into the backseat beside me, and the Mercedes shot out into the stream of traffic.
“I want to stop home and change.”
“The hotel would be better, Jack. They just took down the tape around your house an hour ago. No one’s been inside to clean. Cody brought some clothes to the hotel.”
I nodded, thought about my blood-soaked bed. My house forever colored by that blood.
There was a newspaper on the seat beside me. A big photo on page one. It took me a second to realize that the shackled man standing in line for the TTCF bus was me.
The headline read “Morgan Freed on Bail.” The subhead was “Accused Killer Walks on Twenty Million Bail.”
The lede paragraph was about Colleen’s murder, then a few lines about Phil Spector, Robert Blake, O. J. Simpson. Other LA killers.
“When’s the trial?” I asked Caine.
“We don’t have a date. Not yet,” Caine said. “And we don’t want one too soon.”
I knew what he meant. All we had in our favor was me telling the cops I didn’t do it. Another way of saying we had jack shit.
The car waited for me outside the Beverly Hills Sun. I went up to my opulent, gilded room. I stripped down, stood under the six shower heads in the travertine marble stall. Those streams of clean hot water almost resurrected me.
Thirty minutes later, about noon, I walked through the doors of Private and loped up the stairs.
Cody’s workstation was vacant, but there was a client pacing the open space outside my office. It was Dewey Arnold, lead attorney for Hamilton-Price, the biggest sports agency in the world.
“Dewey, come in. I wasn’t expecting you.”
“I don’t need to come in, Jack.”
“No?”
I had been headed toward my office, but I stopped, turned around, and looked into Dewey Arnold’s craggy face.
I had known Dewey since I was a teenager. His firm had represented me during my one-season shot at professional football. Hamilton-Price had been my father’s client. Hamilton was still friends with my uncle Fred, who co-owned the Oakland Raiders.
Hamilton-Price had been with Private for the past five years.
“Let me just say it, Jack. You’re fired. We don’t want to work with you anymore.”
“Dewey. Come in. Let’s talk about this. I’m not guilty of anything. It’s a-”
“I’ve heard. It’s a frame,” he said. “We don’t care. We don’t like the stink. I settled up with accounting and I’m putting out a press release this afternoon. We’re moving our business to Private Security.”
“You’re going to my brother?”
“Out of loyalty to your family. Hamilton said to tell you good luck.”
If you say the word luck and put a lot of power behind that ck sound, spit comes out of your mouth. I wiped my cheek as Dewey Arnold stalked toward the elevator.