“I don’t care.”
“Did you kill your wife and her lover?”
“No!”
“Then why did you go out there to the house?”
“I was suspicious. If she was there with somebody, I was going to confront her and throw him out on his ass.”
“You expect this jury to believe that a man who runs abillion-dollar movie studio took the afternoon off to drive out to Malibu to spy on his wife?”
“No, I’m no spy. I had suspicions and went out there to see for myself.”
“And to confront her with a gun?”
Elliot opened his mouth to speak but then hesitated and didn’t respond.
“You see, Walter?” I said. “You get up there and you open yourself up to anything – most of it not good.”
He shook his head.
“I don’t care. It’s a given. Guilty guys don’t testify. Everybody knows it. I’m testifying that I did not do this.”
He poked a finger at me with each syllable of the last sentence. I still liked his forcefulness. He was believable. Maybe he could survive on the stand.
“Well, ultimately it is your decision,” I said. “We’ll get you prepared to testify but we won’t make the decision until we get into the defense phase of the trial and we see where we stand.”
“It’s decided now. I’m testifying.”
His face began to turn a deep shade of crimson. I had to tread lightly here. I didn’t want him to testify but it was unethical for me to forbid it. It was a client decision, and if he ever claimed I took it away from him or refused to let him testify, I would have the bar swarming me like angry bees.
“Look, Walter,” I said. “You’re a powerful man. You run a studio and make movies and put millions of dollars on the line every day. I understand all of that. You are used to making decisions with nobody questioning them. But when we go into trial, I’m the boss. And while it will be you who makes this decision, I need to know that you are listening to me and considering my counsel. There’s no use going further if you don’t.”
He rubbed his hand roughly across his face. This was hard for him.
“Okay. I understand. We make a final decision on this later.”
He said it grudgingly. It was a concession he didn’t want to make. No man wants to relinquish his power to another.
“Okay, Walter,” I said. “I think that puts us on the same page.”
I checked my watch again. There were a few more things on my list and I still had some time.
“Okay, let’s move on,” I said.
“Please.”
“I want to add a couple people to the defense team. They will be ex-”
“No. I told you, the more lawyers a defendant has, the guiltier he looks. Look at Barry Bonds. Tell me people don’t think he’s guilty. He’s got more lawyers than teammates.”
“Walter, you didn’t let me finish. These are not lawyers I’m talking about, and when we go to trial, I promise it is going to be just you and me sitting at the table.”
“Then, who do you want to add?”
“A jury-selection consultant and somebody to work with you on image and testimony, all of that.”
“No jury consultant. Makes it look like you’re trying to rig things.”
“Look, the person I want to hire will be sitting out in the gallery. No one will notice her. She plays poker for a living and just reads people’s faces and looks for tells – little giveaways. That’s it.”
“No, I won’t pay for that mumbo jumbo.”
“Are you sure, Walter?”
I spent five minutes trying to convince him, telling him that picking the jury might be the most important part of the trial. I stressed that in circumstantial cases the priority had to be in picking jurors with open minds, ones who didn’t believe that just because the police or prosecution say something, it’s automatically true. I told him that I prided myself on my skills in picking a jury but that I could use the help of an expert who knew how to read faces and gestures. At the end of my plea Elliot simply shook his head.
“Mumbo jumbo. I will trust your skills.”
I studied him for a moment and decided we’d talked enough for the day. I would bring up the rest with him the next time. I had come to realize that while he was paying lip service to the idea that I was the trial boss, there was no doubt that he was firmly in charge of things.
And I couldn’t help but believe it might lead him straight to prison.
Twenty
By the time I dropped Patrick back at his car in downtown and headed to the Valley in heavy evening traffic, I knew I was going to be late and would tip off another confrontation with my ex-wife. I called to let her know but she didn’t pick up and I left a message. When I finally got to her apartment complex in Sherman Oaks it was almost seven forty and I found mother and daughter out at the curb, waiting. Hayley had her head down and was looking at the sidewalk. I noticed she had begun to adopt this posture whenever her parents came into close proximity of one another. It was like she was just standing on the transporter circle and waiting to be beamed far away from us.
I popped the locks as I pulled to a stop, and Maggie helped Hayley into the back with her school backpack and her overnight bag.
“Thanks for being on time,” she said in a flat voice.
“No problem,” I said, just to see if it would put the flares in her eyes. “Must be a hot date if you’re waiting out here for me.”
“No, not really. Parent-teacher conference at the school.”
That got through my defenses and hit me in the jaw.
“You should’ve told me. We could’ve gotten a babysitter and gone together.”
“I’m not a baby,” Hayley said from behind me.
“We tried that,” Maggie said from my left. “Remember? You jumped on the teacher so badly about Hayley’s math grade – the circumstance of which you knew nothing about – that they asked me to handle communications with the school.”
The incident sounded only vaguely familiar. It had been safely locked away somewhere in my oxycodone-corrupted memory banks. But I felt the burn of embarrassment on my face and neck. I didn’t have a comeback.
“I have to go,” Maggie said quickly. “Hayley, I love you. Be good for your father and I’ll see you tomorrow.”
“Okay, Mom.”
I stared out the window for a moment at my ex-wife before pulling away.
“Give ’em hell, Maggie McFierce,” I said.
I pulled away from the curb and put my window up. My daughter asked me why her mother was nicknamed Maggie McFierce.
“Because when she goes into battle, she always knows she is going to win,” I said.
“What battle?”
“Any battle.”
We drove silently down Ventura Boulevard and stopped for dinner at DuPar’s. It was my daughter’s favorite place to eat dinner because I always let her order pancakes. Somehow, the kid thought ordering breakfast for dinner was crossing some line and it made her feel rebellious and brave.
I ordered a BLT with Thousand Island dressing on it and, considering my last cholesterol count, figured I was the one being rebellious and brave. We did her homework together, which was a breeze for her and taxing for me, then I asked her what she wanted to do. I was willing to do anything – a movie, the mall, whatever she wanted – but I was hoping she’d just want to go home to my place and hang out, maybe pull out some old family scrapbooks and look at the yellowed photos.
She hesitated in responding and I thought I knew why.
“There’s nobody staying at my place if that’s what you’re worried about, Hay. The lady you met, Lanie? She doesn’t visit me anymore.”
“You mean like she’s not your girlfriend anymore?”
“She never was my girlfriend. She was a friend. Remember when I stayed in the hospital last year? I met her there and we became friends. We try to watch out for each other, and every now and then she comes over when she doesn’t want to stay home alone.”