“It is all right. I have people who can protect you.”
I nodded. I expected that he might make such an offer. But it wasn’t the kind of protection I was interested in.
“I think I’m all right,” I said. “I’ve got my own people. But I’ll tell you what. I’ve got a client in the pink module at Men’s Central down in L.A. You think you can get somebody in there to sort of watch over him? He’s in there alone, and I’m worried they’re going to see this thing moving toward a trial in which a lot of these secrets are going to come out. They’ll know that the best way to avoid that is to avoid having a trial.”
Moya nodded.
“If there is no client, there is no trial,” he said.
“You got that right,” I said.
“Then I will see to it that he is protected.”
“Thank you. And while you’re at it, I’d double up on whatever protective measures you have for yourself in here.”
“That will be done as well.”
“Good. Now let’s talk about the gun.”
I flipped a few pages back on my legal pad to get to the notes I had written off the trial transcript. I refreshed myself on the facts and then looked at Moya.
“Okay, at your trial the arresting officer from the LAPD described coming into the room and arresting you, and then finding the gun. Were you still in the room when they found it or had you already been pulled out of there?”
He nodded as if to say he could answer this one.
“It was a two-room suite. They handcuff me and make me sit on the couch in the living room. A man with a gun stood over me while the others began to search through the room. They found the cocaine in a drawer in the bedroom. Then they said they find the gun. He come out of the bedroom and show me the gun in a plastic bag and I said it was not my gun. He said, ‘It is now.’”
I wrote a few notes down and spoke without looking up from the pad.
“And he was the LAPD officer who testified at the trial? An officer named Robert Ramos?”
“That was him.”
“You’re sure he said, ‘It is now,’ when you said it wasn’t your gun?”
“This is what he said.”
It was a good note to have. It was hearsay and therefore might not even be allowed as testimony in a trial, but if Moya was telling the truth—and I believed he was—then it meant Ramos might have had some knowledge of the gun having been planted in the room. Maybe he had been coached to look under the mattress.
“There was no video of the search introduced at your trial. Do you recall seeing anybody with a video camera?”
“Yes, they take a video of me. And the whole room. They humiliate me. They make me take off my clothes for the search. And the video man was there.”
This made me curious. They had video but didn’t use it at trial. Why? What was on the video that made it a risk to show to a jury? The humiliation of Hector Moya? Possibly. But possibly something else.
I made another note on my pad and then moved on to the next thing I wanted to cover.
“Have you ever been in Nogales, Arizona?”
“No, never.”
“You’re sure? Never in your life.”
“Never.”
According to Marco’s testimony at trial, he received an ATF report tracing the gun. According to this report, the weapon was a .25 caliber Guardian manufactured by North American Arms. It was originally purchased in Colorado by a man named Budwin Dell, who then sold it at a gun show in Nogales five weeks before it was allegedly found in Moya’s hotel room. Dell was not a federally licensed firearms dealer, so he was allowed to sell the gun without a background check or a waiting period. An ID check would be the only thing required in a cash deal. An ATF agent assigned to the ICE team was dispatched to Littleton, Colorado, to interview Dell and show him a photo lineup. Dell chose the photo of Hector Moya as the customer he believed had bought the weapon in Nogales. His receipt book credited the sale to a customer named Reynaldo Sante, which happened to be one of the names contained in the numerous false identification packages found in the room where Moya was arrested.
Dell proved to be a key witness at the trial, locking Moya to the gun and the phony ID found in his possession. Though Moya claimed the gun and ID were planted by the police, it must’ve sounded preposterous to the jury.
But now with the knowledge that Glory Days and Trina Trixxx were informants to the DEA agent heading the ICE team, I didn’t think this was preposterous at all.
“Hector, I need you to tell me the truth about something. Don’t lie, because I think the truth will actually help you.”
“Ask me.”
“The false ID in the name of Reynaldo Sante. In trial you said the gun and the ID were planted in the room by the cops. But that wasn’t true, was it?”
Moya thought a little bit before answering. He first nodded his head.
“The ID was mine. Not the gun.”
I nodded. I thought so.
“And you used that ID on previous trips to Los Angeles, didn’t you?”
“Yes.”
“Those trips, when you were checking into hotels under the name Reynaldo Sante, did you also meet Glory Days and Trina Trixxx in your rooms?”
“Yes.”
I wrote a few notes down. My adrenaline was kicking in my bloodstream. I was clearly seeing a path in which to take the La Cosse case as well as Moya’s. I was on the road to finding something out.
“Okay,” I said. “Hector, this is all good so far. I think we can do something with this.”
“What else do you want to know?”
“For the moment, nothing. But I’ll be back to see you. The main thing I wanted today was your cooperation and to know we could work together. I’m going to need you to testify at my other client’s trial. We will build a record in that trial that will support your habeas petition. One case will help the other. You understand?”
“I understand.”
“And testifying is not a problem? Your people will understand what you are doing?”
“I will make them understand.”
“Then we’re good here. The last thing I want to mention is a word of advice on Sylvester Fulgoni.”
“Sylvestri, yes.”
“Sylvestri, then. He was a very good lawyer but he is not a lawyer anymore. So you have to remember that anything you tell him is not protected like it is with anything you tell me. Be circumspect with what you say to him. Understand? Be careful.”
He nodded.
“Okay, and speaking of which, to make things all legal between you and me, you need to sign an authorization that allows me to represent you.”
I had the document ready to go, folded lengthwise in my inside pocket. I slipped it and a pen across the table to him and he signed it.
“Okay, then, I think we’re finished here,” I said. “Stay safe, Hector.”
“And you too, Miguel.”
28
Once in the Lincoln again I told Earl he could take us back to the city.
“How’d it go in there, boss?”
“You know, Earl, I’ve visited a lot of different people in a lot of different prisons and I’m not sure if I’ve ever had a better visit.”
“That’s good.”
“Yeah, real good.”
I opened the contacts file on my phone and scrolled down to the Vs. I might not have had Fernando Valenzuela on speed dial anymore but I knew I still had his cell on my contacts list. I made the call and wondered if he’d answer when my name came up on the screen. I was about to hang up before it went to message when he finally picked up.
“Yo, Mick, don’t tell me you’re calling me with all of this work you promised me.”
“As a matter of fact, Val, I thought you should know that I’ve partnered up with Fulgoni, so it looks like we’ll be working together again after all.”
“Ain’t that a shame. I’ll believe it when I hear it from Fulgoni, not you.”
“That’s fine. You
call him. But there’s something I need from you right now.”
“Of course there is. But I’m not falling for this shit, Haller. I’ll call Fulgoni and if he clears it, then I’ll see what you need.”
“You can do whatever you want, Val. But I need you to text me the photo you took of Giselle Dallinger when you papered her back in November. You got that? Giselle Dallinger. If I don’t get it in the next ten minutes, you’re fired.”
“We’ll see what Sly says about that.”
“Sly and his old man are working for me. I don’t work for them. You’ve got nine minutes now, Val.”
I disconnected the call. Something about Valenzuela always got under my skin. He always acted like he knew something I didn’t, like he had something on me.
“That true?” Earl asked from the front seat. “You and Fulgoni partnering up?”
“Just on one case, Earl. That’s about all I could take with those guys.”
Earl nodded.
I looked around and saw that he had us back on the 15 Freeway heading south. Traffic was sparse and it gave me hope that we might get into L.A. before the afternoon traffic crunch. That would allow me to keep rolling with the momentum the prison visit had brought.
I called Cisco to once again redirect his activities.
“I’m going to need you to go to Colorado.”
“What’s in Colorado?”
“A guy named Budwin Dell. He was a witness against Moya at his trial. He’s an unlicensed gun dealer from Littleton who testified that he sold the gun to Hector Moya at a gun show in Nogales. I think he lied. I think somebody from the ICE team maybe put him up to it. The ATF probably had something on him. I want you to go talk to him and see if he’s going to hold up when I get him on the stand.”
“I’m working five different things here, Mick. You want me to drop it all and catch a plane?”
Sometimes momentum can move you too far too quickly. Cisco had a good point.
“I want you to go when the time is right. But I think this guy’s going to be key.”
“Okay. I’ll get out there by the end of the week. But first I’ll make sure he’s in Colorado. If he’s still on the gun show circuit, he might be anywhere. They’re all the rage these days.”
“Good point. I’ll leave it in your hands, then. You know what to do.”
“Okay, what else you get up there?”
“Sly Fulgoni Jr. subpoenaed Gloria a week before she was murdered. I think that’s what triggered the whole thing. They killed her before she could talk.”
Cisco whistled. He did that whenever a piece of the puzzle fell into place.
“There was no subpoena found in her place. I studied the inventory.”
“Because they took it. That’s why she was killed in her home. They had to find the subpoena or the locals might ask questions.”
“How did they know?”
“Fulgoni filed it under seal, so I’m thinking Gloria told the wrong person about it.”
“Marco?”
“That’s who I’m guessing. But I don’t want to guess. I want to nail it down.”
“Phone records?”
“If there are any. La Cosse said he and Gloria used burners that they changed all the time.”
“I’ll see what I can find. You might have to ask a judge for Marco’s records and we’ll try to match her numbers from the burners.”
“That’ll be a fight to the finish.”
“What else did you get up there, Mick? Sounds like a good trip.”
“Yeah, well, I think I got our case. We just need to nail down this guy Budwin Dell and a few other things . . .”
Prompted by thinking about the fight that would ensue if I sought Marco’s phone records, I was suddenly struck by where the case’s true battle would most likely be.
“It’s going to be a subpoena case,” I said. “Getting these people into court. Dell, Marco, Lankford—none of them are going to willingly testify. Their agencies will fight it tooth and nail. The feds will even fight my putting Moya on the stand. They’ll cite public safety, the cost to taxpayers, anything to prevent him from being brought down to L.A. to testify.”
“They might have a point on the public safety angle,” Cisco said. “Moving a cartel guy? This could be Moya’s whole plan—to get moved out into the open so his people can make a run at grabbing him. A lot of space between L.A. and Victorville.”
I thought about Moya and the conversation we’d just had.
“Could be,” I said. “But something tells me that’s not the case. He wants out fair and square. And if he wins his habeas, he’ll probably walk on time served. He’s already been in eight years on two ounces. The only thing holding him is the gun enhancement.”
“Well, either way,” Cisco said, “you’re going to need a strong judge. One who will stand up.”
“Yeah, not many of those left.”
It was true. Many judges were already fronts for the state. But even those who weren’t would be hard-pressed to allow me to present the defense I was envisioning. The true battleground of the case would be in the hearings before a single juror was seated. Unless I came up with another strategy to get my witnesses in.
I decided not to think about it for now.
“So how are you making out?” I asked.
“I’m getting close to connecting Lankford and Marco,” Cisco said.
That was good news.
“Tell me about it.”
“It’s a little tentative now, so give me a day on it. It involves a double murder in Glendale. A drug rip-off going back ten years. I’m waiting on records—it’s a cold case, so not a problem getting the docs.”
“Let me know when you know. You heard from Bullocks today?”
“Not today.”
“She—”
“Hey, boss!” Earl said from the front seat.
I looked at his eyes in the mirror. They weren’t on me. They were on something behind us. Something that was scaring him.
“What is—”
The impact was loud and hard as something with what felt like the power of a train plowed into us from behind. I was belted in, but even so, my body was hurled forward into the fold-down tabletop affixed to the back of the seat in front of me, and then thrown against the door as the Lincoln went into a sideways slide to the right. Fighting the centrifugal force of the slide I managed to raise my head up enough to look over the right side doorsill. I saw the freeway guardrail a microsecond before we hit it flush and our momentum took us over it.
The car started tumbling down a concrete embankment, the crunching of steel and shattering of glass sharp in my ears as it flipped once, then twice, then three times. I was whipped around like a rag doll until the car finally came to a metal-grinding stop upside down and at the forty-five-degree angle of the embankment.
I don’t know how long I was out, but when I opened my eyes I realized I was hanging upside down by the seat belt. An old man on his hands and knees was staring at me through the broken window on the high side of the car.
“Mister, you all right?” the man said. “That was a bad one.”
I didn’t answer. I reached to the seat belt and pushed the release button without thinking. I crashed down to the ceiling of the car, embedding broken glass in my cheek and aggravating a dozen sore spots on my body.
I groaned and slowly tried to raise myself, looking to the front seat to check on Earl.
“Earl?”
He wasn’t there.
“Mister, I better get you out of there. I smell gas. I think the tank ruptured.”
I turned back to my would-be rescuer.
“Where’s Earl?”
He shook his head.
“Is Earl your chauffeur?”
“Yeah. Where is he?”
I reached up to pull a piece of glass out of my cheek. I could feel the blood on my fingers.
“He got thrown out,” the rescuer said. “He’s lying over there. He looks bad. I don’t think—well
, the paramedics will be able to tell. I called them. I called nine-one-one and they’re coming.”
He looked at me and nodded.
“Thank you,” I said.
“Here, let me help you out. This thing could catch on fire.”
It wasn’t until I crawled out and struggled to my feet, hand on my rescuer’s shoulder, that I saw Earl lying facedown on the embankment above the Lincoln. Blood was running down the concrete in a thick stream from his neck and face area.
“You got lucky,” the man said.
“Yeah, I’m Mr. Lucky,” I said.
I took my hand off his shoulder and leaned forward until my hands reached the concrete. I crawled up the embankment to Earl. I knew right away that he was dead. He must’ve been thrown clear and then the car rolled over him. His skull was crushed and his face was misshapen and ghastly to look at.
I sat down on the concrete next to him and looked away. I saw the rescuer looking up at me, an expression of horror on his face. I knew my nose was broken and blood was dripping down both sides of my mouth. I guess I was ghastly to look at as well.
“Did you see what happened?” I asked.
“Yeah, I saw it. It was a red tow truck. The thing hit you like you weren’t even there and then it kept going.”
I nodded and looked down. I saw Earl’s outstretched hand, palm down on the bloody concrete. I put my hand on top of it.
“I’m sorry, Earl,” I said.
Part 3
THE MAN IN THE HAT
MONDAY, JUNE 17
29
The prosecution took eight days to present its case against Andre La Cosse, strategically finishing on a Friday so the jurors would have the whole weekend to consider its case in full before hearing a single word from the defense. Bill Forsythe, the deputy D.A., had been workmanlike in his presentation. Nothing fancy, nothing over the top. He methodically built his case around the videotaped interview of the defendant and attempted to solidly wed it to the physical evidence from the crime scene. On the tape La Cosse said he grabbed Gloria Dayton by the throat during their argument. Forsythe coupled this with testimony from the medical examiner, who said that the hyoid bone in the victim’s neck had been fractured. This coupling was the center of the case, and all other aspects, testimony, and evidence emanated from it like the concentric circles of waves from a stone thrown into a lake.