I turned the video off and looked at Hensley.
“Mr. Hensley, does your hotel keep records of incoming calls to guest rooms?”
“No, only outgoing calls, because those are charged to the guest account.”
I nodded.
“How would you explain that Mr. La Cosse had the right name and room number when he called the hotel?”
Hensley shook his head.
“I can’t explain it.”
“Is it possible that because of the late checkout given the newlyweds, the name Daniel Price was still on the guest list that the hotel operator uses?”
“It’s possible. But once they checked out, the name would have been removed from the current guest list.”
“Is that a human process or a computerized process?”
“Human. The name is deleted from the current guest list at the front desk when someone checks out.”
“So if the person handling the assignment at the front desk got busy with other work or other guests, that process might have been delayed, correct?”
“It could have happened.”
“It could have happened,” I repeated. “Isn’t three o’clock check-in time at the hotel?”
“Yes, it is.”
“Is the front desk generally busy at that time?”
“It all depends on the day of the week, and Sunday check-ins are usually slow. But you’re right, it could have been busy at the desk.”
I didn’t know what any of this got me, but I felt that the jury might be getting bored. It was time to open the trapdoor in the Trojan horse’s belly. Time to come out of hiding and attack.
“Mr. Hensley, let’s move on a bit. You said in your earlier testimony that the hotel’s own investigation confirmed that the victim, Gloria Dayton, had entered the hotel on the evening of last November eleventh. How did you confirm that?”
“We looked at video from the cameras and pretty soon we found her.”
“And you were able to track her by different cameras and video as she moved through the hotel, correct?”
“That’s right.”
“Did you bring a copy of the video from the cameras with you to court today?”
“Yes, I did.”
He pulled a disc out of one of the pockets of his leather folder and held it up for a moment.
“Did you ever give a copy of that video record to the LAPD investigators who were working on the case?”
“The detectives came by early in the investigation and reviewed our raw feeds — this was before we put together a single video that tracked the woman they were interested in through the hotel. We later put that together and made all the material available, but nobody came to pick it up until a couple months ago.”
“Was that Detective Whitten or his partner?”
“No, it was Mr. Lankford from the DA’s Office. They were prepping for the trial and he came around to collect what we had.”
I wanted to turn and look at Forsythe, to try to get a read on whether he ever saw the video — because it sure never showed up on any discovery list I had seen.
But I didn’t look at the prosecutor, because I didn’t want to give anything away. Not yet, at least.
“Do you see Mr. Lankford here in court today?” I asked Hensley.
“Yes, I do.”
I then asked the judge to tell Lankford to stand, and Hensley identified him. Lankford looked at me with eyes that were as cold and gray as a January dawn. After he was reseated, I turned to the judge and asked if the attorneys could approach. The judge waved us up and she knew exactly what I wanted to talk about.
“Don’t tell me, Mr. Haller. You didn’t get copied on the videos.”
“That’s right, Judge. The witness says the prosecution has had this material for two months and not a single frame of video was turned over in discovery to the defense. That’s a direct violation of—”
“Your Honor,” Forsythe broke in. “I have not even seen these videos myself so—”
“But your investigator took delivery of them,” the judge said in a tone of incredulity that told me she was going to come down on my side on this.
“Your Honor,” Forsythe sputtered, “I can’t explain this. If you wish to question my investigator in camera, I am sure there is an explanation. The bottom line is all parties are in agreement that the victim visited that hotel in the hours before her death. It’s not in dispute, so the trespass here is minimal. No harm, no foul, Judge. I make a motion we press on with the case.”
I shook my head wearily.
“Judge, there is no way of knowing whether there is no harm and no foul without looking at the videos.”
The judge nodded in agreement.
“How much time do you need, Mr. Haller?”
“I don’t know. There can’t be a lot of material. An hour?”
“Very well. One hour. You can use the conference room down the hall. My clerk has the key. Step back, gentlemen.”
As I walked back to the defense table, I raised my eyes to the railing and found Lankford staring back at me.
38
I borrowed Lorna’s iPad back from her after the judge broke for the hour. Since I had already studied the Beverly Wilshire videos at length, my purpose in complaining about the prosecution’s discovery violation was actually an effort to conceal my own violation in not providing the same videos to Forsythe. Either way, I didn’t need an hour to study them again. Instead, I used the time to watch the surveillance video from the Stratton Sterghos house once more and to strategize its best use in bringing down Marco and Lankford on the way to a not-guilty verdict for Andre La Cosse. The video was indeed the depth charge I had hoped for. It was waiting below the surface for the prosecution to sail over. When I detonated the charge, Forsythe’s ship would sink.
My case plan was to take things right up to the bell on Friday and rest my case just before the jury was discharged for the weekend. That would give them two full days to consider things before we moved to closing arguments. This meant I was most likely looking at Friday morning as the introduction point of the Sterghos video. I had plenty of witnesses to present between now and then.
At three twenty-five, there was a single knock on the door and Leggoe’s courtroom deputy looked in. It said HERNANDEZ on his name tag.
“You’re up,” he said.
When I got back to the defense table, the video remote and laser pointer were waiting for me at my place.
And my defendant was, too. I realized that Andre’s downward spiral could now be measured by the hours instead of days. He had actually deteriorated in the hour I had spent in the conference room and he had spent in the courthouse lockup.
I squeezed his arm. It felt as thin as a broomstick under his sleeve.
“We’re doing well, Andre. Hang in there.”
“Have you decided if I get to testify?”
This was an ongoing conversation we’d been having during the trial. He wanted to testify and tell the world he was innocent. He believed — not without some merit — that guilty men remain mute and the innocent speak out. They testify.
The problem was that, while Andre wasn’t a murderer, he was a man engaged in a criminal enterprise. Additionally, his deteriorated physical condition would likely not garner sympathy from the jury. I didn’t want him to testify and didn’t think he needed to. I had come to believe, contrary to my earlier instincts, that our best shot at a not-guilty verdict was to keep him in his seat.