34
Wednesday, February 5
The silk suit felt good against my skin. It eased the itch from the prison rash I had developed over most of my body. I sat quietly next to Jennifer Aronson at the defense table and savored the moment of pseudofreedom and relief. I had been taken to court for a hearing requested by the prosecution, which was seeking sanctions for alleged foul play on the part of the defense. But no matter what the cause, I was happy to be pulled out of Twin Towers for any reason for any amount of time.
Over the years I’d had many incarcerated clients who exhibited and complained about prison rash. Visits to the jail clinic didn’t cure it or explain it. Its origin was unknown. It had been suggested that the industrial detergent used on the jail bedding and laundry caused it, or that there was something in the material used in the thin mattresses in the cells. Others said it was an allergic reaction to confinement. Still others called it the manifestation of guilt. All I knew was that I didn’t get it the first time around at Twin Towers and then I got it bad the second. The difference was that in between stays, I had been the root cause of another damaging internal investigation of the jail system. This made me think that the jail deputies were behind it — that the rash that kept me itching and awake at night was a form of payback. They had spiked my food or my laundry or my cell in some way.
I kept this belief to myself to avoid being considered paranoid. My physical decline and weight loss was continuing and I wanted no one to add concerns about mental acuity to the question of whether I could adequately defend myself. Maybe it was the suit or maybe it was the courtroom. All I knew was that my preoccupation with the malady went away as soon as I left the jail and was put on the bus.
On the way over, the bus had passed two painted murals depicting Kobe Bryant. The famed Lakers basketball star had been killed with his daughter and others in a helicopter crash only ten days earlier and already the street memorials were up in solemn testimony to his transcending mastery of his sport to reach iconic status, in a city where the climb to that level was already so crowded.
I heard the soft thud of the courtroom door closing and turned to see that Kendall Roberts had entered. She gave a secretive wave as she came down the center aisle. I smiled. She moved down the first row and sat directly behind the defense table.
“Hey, Mickey.”
“Kendall, you didn’t have to come all the way down. This probably is going to be a pretty quick hearing.”
“It’s still better than the fifteen minutes they give you at the jail.”
“Well, thanks.”
“Also, I wanted to—”
She stopped when she saw Chan, the courtroom deputy, moving toward us to order me to stop communicating with people in the gallery. I held my hand up to signal that I was halting the violation. I turned forward and leaned toward Jennifer.
“Do you mind telling Kendall that I’ll call her later when I can get to the phone in the module?”
“Not at all.”
Jennifer got up to whisper to Kendall and I went back to staring straight ahead and feeling the tension leak out of my muscles and spine. You never stopped looking over your shoulder in Twin Towers. I savored these moments when I didn’t have to worry.
Jennifer returned to her seat. I finally came out of my reverie and got to work.
“So,” I said. “What’s the update on Opparizio?”
I had gotten the word during a team meeting Monday that the Indians had finally located him when they followed Jeannie Ferrigno to a rendezvous at a hotel in Beverly Hills. They dropped her and stayed with Opparizio, tailing him to a house in Brentwood that was held in an impenetrable blind trust.
“Same,” Jennifer said. “They’re ready to go with the subpoena when you give the word.”
“Okay, let’s wait till next week. But if it looks like he might be getting ready to split town, we need to serve him. He can’t get away.”
“We know, but I’ll remind Cisco.”
“We also serve the girlfriend then and his two other associates holding shares in BioGreen. And all of it on camera so we can show the judge if they don’t show up.”
“Got it.”
I glanced over at the prosecution table. Berg was by herself today. No bow-tie backup. She was looking at a handwritten document and I guessed that she was rehearsing her argument. She sensed my gaze.
“Hypocrite,” she said.
“Excuse me?” I said.
“You heard me. You talk about tilting the board all the time and the prosecution not playing fair, and then you pull a stunt like this.”
“Like what?”
“I’m sure you know what this is about. Like I said and you heard, you’re a hypocrite, Haller. And a murderer.”
I looked at her for a long moment and I could see it in her eyes. She was a true believer. She had me down as a killer. It’s one thing when the cops think it — most of them can’t see the difference between a defense lawyer and a defendant. But in the world of trial lawyers, I had for the most part encountered respect from both sides of the aisle. That Berg believed I was capable of putting a man in a trunk and shooting him three times was a reminder of what I was facing at the trial ahead: a true believer who wanted to put me away forever.
“You’re so wrong,” I said. “You’re so blinded by the lies you’ve been told by—”
“Save it for the jury, Haller,” she said.
The verbal confrontation ended with Deputy Chan announcing that court was coming to order. Judge Warfield stepped through the door at the back of the courtroom and took the bench. She quickly got down to business on California versus Haller and invited Berg to explain her request for sanctions against the defense. The prosecutor took the document she had been studying to the lectern with her.
“Your Honor, the defense in this case has repeatedly accused the People of playing unfair with discovery, and yet it is the defense that has engaged in deception all along,” Berg began.
“Ms. Berg,” the judge cut in. “I don’t need the preamble. Get to the point. If there is a discovery violation, please get to it.”
“Yes, Your Honor. On Monday, the latest witness lists were due from each side. And to our surprise, the defense actually put new names on their witness list. One name that stood out to us was Rose Marie Dietrich, whom the defense listed as the landlord of the victim in this case, Sam Scales.”
“Was this a witness the prosecution was not familiar with?”
“No, Your Honor, we were not familiar with her. I dispatched investigators to locate and talk to her and we learned that the reason she was not known to us is that Sam Scales used a false identity when he rented an apartment from her.”
“I’m not seeing the problem here as far as the defense goes, Ms. Berg.”
“Your Honor, the problem is in what Rose Marie Dietrich told us. She said that Mr. Haller and two of his investigators spoke with her three weeks ago about Sam Scales, who was using the name Walter Lennon when he rented the apartment. Additionally, she allowed Mr. Haller and his crew to look through the victim’s belongings, which were stored in the garage of the property. Unaware that Mr. Scales had been murdered in October, Dietrich and her husband boxed his belongings when he seemed to disappear without paying rent for December. They stored his property in the garage.”
“This is all very interesting, but where is the infraction the People are seeking sanctions for?”
“Judge, the point is that the defense had access to several boxes of belongings, including documents and mail, and yet three weeks later, nothing has come to the People in discovery. They didn’t put Rose Marie Dietrich’s name on their witness list until this week in order to ensure that when the prosecution got to Ms. Dietrich, it would have no access to the property.”