“There is nothing in the warrant that directs me to share with you what we seize,” Drucker said.
“And there’s nothing in there that directs me to cooperate with you,” I said. “But I did. Whatever you take, it comes back to me in discovery anyway, Detective. So, why be a dick about it?”
“You know, Haller, you didn’t have to be a dick yourself and rake me over the coals in public.”
“What? You’re talking about the other day in court? If you think that’s raking somebody over the coals, wait till you testify in front of the jury. Make sure you wear your Depends, Detective.”
Drucker gave me a smile without a note of humor in it.
“Have a good day,” he said.
He brushed by me, holding the documents to his chest so I could not get even a glimpse of them. Lopes and the unnamed detective followed him out. Then the whole entourage of detectives and uniformed escorts left the warehouse. I texted Lorna to let her know I had not been re-arrested. Yet.
29
Friday, January 17
The Catalina Express moved swiftly over the dark waters of the Pacific. The sun was just starting to dip behind the island that lay ahead of us. The wind was biting cold but Kendall and I faced it on the open deck, arms wrapped around each other. It was Friday afternoon and I had told Team Haller that I was disappearing for the holiday weekend. My bail restrictions prohibited me from leaving L.A. County without the judge’s permission, so I chose a spot as far away as I could get without breaking the rules.
The boat docked at the pier in the Avalon Harbor at 4 p.m., and there was a chauffeured golf cart from the Zane Grey Pueblo waiting for us. It carried us and our one bag up the hill, the driver making small talk about the renovations recently completed at the historic hotel, which had once been the home of the author and the place where he had written several of his novels about the western frontier.
“He lived out here because he loved the fishing,” the driver said. “He always said that he wrote so he could fish — whatever that means.”
I just nodded and looked at Kendall. She smiled.
“Did you know he was a dentist?” the driver asked.
“Who was?” I asked.
“Zane Grey,” he said. “And that wasn’t his real first name. His real name was Pearl — like the woman’s name. No wonder he went by Zane. That was his middle name, actually.”
“Interesting,” Kendall said.
It was off-season and the hotel was nearly empty. We had the pick of several rooms, all named after the author’s most popular novels. We took the Riders of the Purple Sage suite, not because I knew the book but because it had a view of the harbor and a working fireplace. I had been in the room before, many times, many years ago, with Maggie McPherson when we were still married.
Our plan was to stay in for most of the weekend and enjoy each other’s company. No phones, no computers, no intrusions. We did, however, rent a golf cart from the hotel for sorties to restaurants and the grocery store down in the town.
The setup was great but there was something sad for me about the trip. I was feeling depressed and couldn’t shake it. Kendall and I spent time in front of the fireplace talking and reminiscing and planning. And we made love the first two nights and on Sunday morning. But by Monday we had stopped talking about anything that mattered, and I sat most of the day in front of the flat-screen, watching CNN reports on the ongoing impeachment saga as well as the mystery virus in China. The Centers for Disease Control had announced that it was deploying medical staff to LAX to meet flights from Wuhan and check passengers for fever and other symptoms of illness. Those who were determined to be sick would be quarantined.
The news was a diversion. I had made a good show of it, turning my phone off and never pulling it out of the suitcase the whole weekend. But I couldn’t take my mind off other things. The weight of what was ahead and the stakes involved was coming down on me.
I had the premonition that Kendall and I were spending our last days together, that her return to L.A. and our trying to rekindle our romance would ultimately be a failed experiment. I couldn’t pinpoint exactly why this was. But thoughts intruded about Maggie and the meeting at USC that had briefly reunited our lost family. And the kiss. It was amazing to me how something so casual, quick, and unexpected could shake the fragile foundations of the relationship at hand.
30
Tuesday, January 21
When Tuesday dawned with a gray overcast sky and heavy fog cover between the island and the mainland, it somehow seemed appropriate to me.
The dread that had steadily built through the weekend was confirmed shortly after I turned on my phone for the first time in three and a half days. Just as we were about to check out and head to the boat, I got a call from Jennifer Aronson.
“Mickey, where are you?”
“Catalina.”
“What?”
“Kendall and I went for the weekend. I told you. Anyway, we’re about to head back. What’s up?”
“I just got a call from Berg. They want you to turn yourself in. They dropped the current murder charge against you this morning, then got a grand jury indictment for murder with special circumstances — financial gain.”
That meant no bail. I remained silent for a long moment and thought about Drucker going through my Sam Scales files. What did he take? Was there something in my files that had led to this?
Kendall noticed the look on my face and whispered, “What is it?”
I shook my head. I would tell her after the call. At the moment I had to come up with a strategy for dealing with this.
“Okay,” I said. “Call Warfield’s clerk. See if you can get on the calendar in the afternoon. I’ll turn myself in then and there. But we—”
“What?” Kendall shrieked.
I held a hand up to quiet her and continued with Jennifer.
“We ask for a probable-cause hearing on the special-circumstances allegation. This is bullshit.”
“But the grand jury indictment obviates a preliminary hearing. It presumes probable cause.”
“Doesn’t matter. We need to get in front of the judge and convince her that this is a bullshit attempt by the prosecution to tilt the board and reset the game clock.”
“Okay, that’s the angle. Speedy trial. I can work on that. You need to get back here and be ready to argue. I think this is one where you need to address the court.”
“Absolutely. You take probable cause and I’ll take the speedy-trial argument. I’m on my way. Let me know if they’re going to wait till the hearing or try to pick me up ahead of that. I’ve got the ankle monitor, so they can find me if they want to.”
“I’m on it.”
We disconnected and I turned to Kendall.
“We have to go. They’re going to arrest me again.”
“How can they do that?”
“They dropped the original case, then went to the grand jury and got an indictment, and it all starts again.”
“You’re going to jail?”
She put her arms around me and hugged me as though she wouldn’t let them take me away.
“I’m going to do my best to get in front of the judge and argue against it. So we should go.”
The ride on the Catalina Express back to San Pedro was through a thick fog. This time Kendall and I stayed inside the cabin, sipping hot coffee and trying to remain calm. I walked her through the steps Berg had taken in turning me into a wanted man. Untrained in the law, Kendall said it was unfair even if it was a valid legal maneuver. And I couldn’t argue with that. The prosecutor was using completely legal means to subvert a completely legal process.