I pulled a chair away from one of the empty desks and brought it over to sit down. I skipped the pleasantries because there weren’t any and got right to the point because I was hungry and didn’t have a lot of time.
“You filed on Gloria Dayton this morning,” I said. “She’s mine. I want to see what we can do about it.”
“Well, we can plead her guilty and she can do one to three years at Frontera.”
She said it matter-of-factly with a smile that was more of a smirk.
“I was thinking of PTI.”
“I was thinking she already got a bite out of that apple and she spit it out. No way.”
“Look, how much coke did she have on her, a couple grams?”
“It’s still illegal, no matter how much she had. Gloria Dayton has had numerous opportunities to rehabilitate herself and avoid prison. But she’s run out of chances.”
She turned to her desk, opened a file and glanced at the top sheet.
“Nine arrests in just the last five years,” she said. “This is her third drug charge and she’s never spent more than three days in jail. Forget PTI. She’s got to learn sometime and this is that time. I’m not open to discussion on this. If she pleads, I’ll give her one to three. If she doesn’t, I’ll go get a verdict and she takes her chances with the judge at sentencing. I will ask for the max on it.”
I nodded. It was going about the way I thought it would with Faire. A one-to-three-year sentence would likely result in a nine-month stay in the slam. I knew Gloria Dayton could do it and maybe should do it. But I still had a card to play.
“What if she had something to trade?”
Faire snorted like it was a joke.
“Like what?”
“A hotel room number where a major dealer is doing business.”
“Sounds a little vague.”
It was vague but I could tell by the change in her voice she was interested. Every prosecutor likes to trade up.
“Call your drug guys. Ask them to run the name Hector Arrande Moya on the box. He’s a Colombian. I can wait.”
She hesitated. She clearly didn’t like being manipulated by a defense attorney, especially when another prosecutor was in earshot. But the hook was already set.
She turned again to her desk and made a call. I listened to one side of the conversation, her telling someone to give her a background check on Moya. She waited awhile and then listened to the response. She thanked whoever it was she had called and hung up. She took her time turning back to me.
“Okay,” she said. “What does she want?”
I had it ready.
“She wants a PTI slot. All charges dropped upon successful completion. She doesn’t testify against the guy and her name is on no documents. She simply gives the hotel and room number where he’s at and your people do the rest.”
“They’ll need to make a case. She’s got to testify. I take it the two grams she had came from this guy. Then she has to tell us about it.”
“No, she doesn’t. Whoever you just talked to told you there’s already a warrant. You can take him down for that.”
She worked it over for a few moments, moving her jaw back and forth as if tasting the deal and deciding whether to eat more. I knew what the stumble was. The deal was a trade-up but it was a trade-up to a federal case. That meant that they would bust the guy and the feds would take over. No prosecutorial glory for Leslie Faire—unless she had designs on jumping over to the U.S. Attorney’s Office one day.
“The feds will love you for this,” I said, trying to wedge into her conscience. “He’s a bad guy and he’ll probably check out soon and the chance to get him will be lost.”
She looked at me like I was a bug.
“Don’t try that with me, Haller.”
“Sorry.”
She went back to her thinking. I tried again.
“Once you have his location, you could always try to set up a buy.”
“Would you be quiet, please? I can’t think.”
I raised my hands in surrender and shut up.
“All right,” she finally said. “Let me talk to my boss. Give me your number and I’ll call you later. But I’ll tell you right now, if we go for it, she’ll have to go to a lockdown program. Something at County-USC. We’re not going to waste a residency slot on her.”
I thought about it and nodded. County-USC was a hospital with a jail wing where injured, sick, and addicted inmates were treated. What she was offering was a program where Gloria Dayton could be treated for her addiction and released upon completion. She would not face any charges or further time in jail or prison.
“Fine with me,” I said.
I looked at my watch. I had to get going.
“Our offer is good until first appearance tomorrow,” I said. “After that I’ll call the DEA and see if they want to deal directly. Then it will be taken out of your hands.”
She looked indignantly at me. She knew that if I got a deal with the feds, they would squash her. Head to head, the feds always trumped the state. I stood up to go and put a business card down on her desk.
“Don’t try to back-door me, Haller,” she said. “If it goes sideways on you, I’ll take it out on your client.”
I didn’t respond. I pushed the chair I had borrowed back to its desk. She then dropped the threat with her next line.
“Anyway, I’m sure we can handle this on a level that makes everybody happy.”
I looked back at her as I got to the office door.
“Everybody except for Hector Moya,” I said.
EIGHT
T he law offices of Dobbs and Delgado were on the twenty-ninth floor of one of the twin towers that created the signature skyline of Century City. I was right on time but everyone was already gathered in a conference room with a long polished wood table and a wall of glass that framed a western exposure stretching across Santa Monica to the Pacific and the charter islands beyond. It was a clear day and I could see Catalina and Anacapa out there at the very edge of the world. Because the sun was going down and seemed to be almost at eye level, a film had been rolled down over the window to cut the glare. It was like the room had sunglasses on.
And so did my client. Louis Roulet sat at the head of the table with a pair of black-framed Ray-Bans on. Out of his gray jail jumpsuit, he now wore a dark brown suit over a pale silk T-shirt. He looked like a confident and cool young real estate executive, not the scared boy I saw in the holding pen in the courthouse.
To Roulet’s left sat Cecil Dobbs and next to him was a well-preserved, well-coiffed and bejeweled woman I assumed to be Roulet’s mother. I also assumed that Dobbs hadn’t told her that the meeting would not include her.
To Roulet’s right the first seat was empty and waiting for me. In the seat next to it sat my investigator, Raul Levin, with a closed file in front of him on the table.
Dobbs introduced Mary Alice Windsor to me. She shook my hand with a strong grip. I sat down and Dobbs explained that she would be paying for her son’s defense and had agreed to the terms I had outlined earlier. He slid an envelope across the table to me. I looked inside and saw a check for sixty thousand dollars with my name on it. It was the retainer I had asked for, but I had expected only half of it in the initial payment. I had made more in total on cases before but it was still the largest single check I had ever received.
The check was drawn on the account of Mary Alice Windsor. The bank was solid gold—First National of Beverly Hills. I closed the envelope and slid it back across the table.
“I’m going to need that to come from Louis,” I said, looking at Mrs. Windsor. “I don’t care if you give him the money and then he gives it to me. But I want the check I get to come from Louis. I work for him and that’s got to be clear from the start.”
I knew this was different from even my practice of that morning—accepting payment from a third party. But it was a control issue. One look across the table at Mary Alice Windsor and C. C. Dobbs and I knew I had to make sure that the
y knew this was my case to manage, to win or to lose.
I wouldn’t have thought it could happen but Mary Windsor’s face hardened. For some reason she reminded me of an old grandfather clock, her face flat and square.
“Mother,” Roulet said, heading something off before it started. “It’s all right. I will write him a check. I should be able to cover it until you give me the money.”
She looked from me to her son and then back to me.
“Very well,” she said.
“Mrs. Windsor,” I said. “Your support for your son is very important. And I don’t mean just the financial end of things. If we are not successful in getting these charges dropped and we choose the alternative of trial, it will be very important for you to show your support in public ways.”
“Don’t be silly,” she said. “I will back him come hell or high water. These ridiculous charges must be removed, and that woman . . . she isn’t going to get a penny from us.”
“Thank you, Mother,” Roulet said.
“Yes, thank you,” I said. “I will be sure to inform you, probably through Mr. Dobbs, where and when you are needed. It’s good to know you will be there for your son.”
I said nothing else and waited. It didn’t take her long to realize she had been dismissed.
“But you don’t want me here right now, is that it?”
“That’s right. We need to discuss the case and it is best and most appropriate for Louis to do this only with his defense team. The attorney-client privilege does not cover anyone else. You could be compelled to testify against your son.”
“But if I leave, how will Louis get home?”
“I have a driver. I will get him home.”
She looked at Dobbs, hoping he might have higher standing and be able to overrule me. Dobbs smiled and stood up so he could pull her chair back. She finally let him and stood up to go.
“Very well,” she said. “Louis, I will see you at dinner.”
Dobbs walked her through the door of the conference room and I saw them exchange conversation in the hallway. I couldn’t hear what was said. Then she left and Dobbs came back, closing the door.
I went through some preliminaries with Roulet, telling him he would have to be arraigned in two weeks and submit a plea. He would have the opportunity at that time to put the state on notice that he was not waiving his right to a speedy trial.
“That’s the first choice we have to make,” I said. “Whether you want this thing to drag out or you want to move quickly and put the pressure on the state.”
“What are the options?” Dobbs asked.
I looked at him and then back at Roulet.
“I’ll be very honest with you,” I said. “When I have a client who is not incarcerated, my inclination is to drag it out. It’s the client’s freedom that is on the line—why not get the most of it before the hammer comes down.”
“You’re talking about a guilty client,” Roulet said.
“On the other hand,” I said, “if the state’s case is weak, then delaying things only gives them time to strengthen their hand. You see, time is our only leverage at this point. If we refuse to waive our right to a speedy trial, it puts a lot of pressure on the prosecutor.”
“I didn’t do what they are saying I did,” Roulet said. “I don’t want to waste any time. I want this shit behind me.”
“If we refuse to waive, then theoretically they must put you on trial within sixty days of arraignment. The reality is that it gets pushed back when they move to a preliminary hearing. In a prelim a judge hears the evidence and decides if there is enough there to warrant a trial. It’s a rubber-stamp process. The judge will hold you over for trial, you will be arraigned again and the clock is reset to sixty days.”
“I can’t believe this,” Roulet said. “This is going to last forever.”
“We could always waive the prelim, too. It would really force their hand. The case has been reassigned to a young prosecutor. He’s pretty new to felonies. It may be the way to go.”
“Wait a minute,” Dobbs said. “Isn’t a preliminary hearing useful in terms of seeing what the state’s evidence is?”
“Not really,” I said. “Not anymore. The legislature tried to streamline things a while back and they turned the prelim into a rubber stamp because they relaxed hearsay rules. Now you usually just get the case cop on the stand and he tells the judge what everybody said. The defense usually doesn’t get a look at any witnesses other than the cop. If you ask me, the best strategy is to force the prosecution to put up or shut up. Make them go sixty days from first arraignment.”
“I like that idea,” Roulet said. “I want this over with as soon as possible.”
I nodded. He had said it as though a not-guilty verdict was a foregone conclusion.
“Well, maybe it doesn’t even get to a trial,” Dobbs said. “If these charges don’t hold muster —”
“The DA is not going to drop this,” I said, cutting him off. “Usually, the cops overcharge and then the DA cuts the charges back. That didn’t happen here. Instead, the DA upped the charges. That tells me two things. One is that they believe the case is solid and, two, they upped the charges so that when we start to negotiate they will deal from a higher ground.”
“You’re talking about a plea bargain?” Roulet asked.
“Yeah, a disposition.”
“Forget it, no plea bargain. I’m not going to jail for something I didn’t do.”
“It might not mean going to jail. You have a clean rec—”
“I don’t care if it means I could walk. I’m not going to plead guilty to something I didn’t do. If that is going to be a problem for you, then we need to part company right here.”
I looked closely at him. Almost all of my clients make protestations of innocence at one point along the way. Especially if it is our first case together. But Roulet’s words came with a fervor and directness I hadn’t seen in a long time. Liars falter. They look away. Roulet’s eyes were holding mine like magnets.
“There is also the civil liability to consider,” Dobbs added. “A guilty plea will allow this woman to —”
“I understand all of that,” I said, cutting him off again. “I think we’re all getting ahead of ourselves here. I only wanted to give Louis a general idea of the way this was going to go. We don’t have to make any moves or any hard-and-fast decisions for at least a couple of weeks. We just need to know at the arraignment how we are going to play it.”
“Louis took a year of law at UCLA,” Dobbs said. “I think he has baseline knowledge of the situation.”
Roulet nodded.
“Okay, good,” I said. “Then let’s just get to it. Louis, let’s start with you. Your mother said she expects to see you at dinner. Do you live at home? I mean at her home?”
“I live in the guesthouse. She lives in the main house.”
“Anyone else live on the premises?”
“The maid. In the main house.”
“No siblings, boyfriends, girlfriends?”
“That’s it.”
“And you work at your mother’s firm?”
“More like I run it. She’s not there too much anymore.”
“Where were you Saturday night?”
“Satur— you mean last night, don’t you?”
“No, I mean Saturday night. Start there.”
“Saturday night I didn’t do anything. I stayed home and watched television.”
“By yourself?”
“That’s right.”
“What did you watch?”
“A DVD. An old movie called The Conversation. Coppola.”
“So nobody was with you or saw you. You just watched the movie and then went to bed.”
“Basically.”
“Basically. Okay. That brings us to Sunday morning. What did you do yesterday during the day?”
“I played golf at Riviera, my usual foursome. Started at ten and finished at four. I came home, showered and changed, had dinner at my mothe
r’s house—you want to know what we had?”
“That won’t be necessary. But later on I probably will need the names of the guys you played golf with. What happened after dinner?”
“I told my mother I was going to my place but instead I went out.”
I noticed that Levin had started taking notes on a small notebook he had taken out of a pocket.
“What kind of car do you drive?”
“I have two, an oh-four Range Rover I use for taking clients around in and an oh-one Carrera I use for myself.”
“You used the Porsche last night, then?”
“That’s right.”
“Where’d you go?”
“I went over the hill and down into the Valley.”
He said it as though it was a risky move for a Beverly Hills boy to descend into the working-class neighborhoods of the San Fernando Valley.
“Where did you go?” I asked.
“Ventura Boulevard. I had a drink at Nat’s North and then I went down the street a ways to Morgan’s and I had a drink there, too.”
“Those places are pickup bars, wouldn’t you say?”
“Yes. That’s why I went to them.”
He was matter-of-fact about it and I appreciated his honesty.
“So you were looking for someone. A woman. Anyone in particular, someone you knew?”
“No one in particular. I was looking to get laid, pure and simple.”
“What happened at Nat’s North?”
“What happened was that it was a slow night, so I left. I didn’t even finish my drink.”
“You go there often? Do the bartenders know you?”
“Yeah, they know me. A girl named Paula was working last night.”
“Okay, so it wasn’t working for you there and you left. You drove down to Morgan’s. Why Morgan’s?”
“It’s just another place I go.”
“They know you there?”
“They should. I’m a good tipper. Last night Denise and Janice were behind the bar. They know me.”
I turned to Levin.
“Raul, what is the victim’s name?”
Levin opened his file to pull out a police report but answered before having to look it up.