BALLARD AND BOSCH 7 страница

“What does the oximeter do?”

“It measures the oxygen content in the blood. You get a good idea about how the heart is working in terms of circulating oxygenated blood.”

“Is that why it is clipped to the finger? You want the measurement from an extremity?”

“Exactly.”

“Now I noticed today that you brought your EMT kit with you, is that correct?”

“Yes, because the subpoena told me to.”

“This oximeter you just mentioned, is it in your kit?”

“Should be.”

“Can you open your kit and show the oximeter to the jury?”

Morales reached down to the floor next to the witness stand and unsnapped the latches on his kit. He flipped the top open and grabbed a small device out of a tray. He held it up to Haller, then turned and displayed it to the jury.

“How does that work, Mr. Morales?” Haller asked.

“Simple,” Morales said. “Turn it on, clip it to the finger, and it shoots infrared light through the finger. From that it can measure the oxygen saturation of the blood.”

“And you just clip it to any finger?”

“The index finger.”

“Either hand?”

“Either hand.”

“How long did you treat Jeffrey Herstadt that day?”

“Can I look at the report?”

“You may.”

Morales looked over the report and then answered. “From beginning to end, when he walked away, it was eleven minutes.”

“Then what did you do?”

“Well, first we realized he walked away with our oximeter still on his finger. I chased him down and grabbed that. Then we packed up, bought a couple lattes, and left.”

“You returned to the station?”

“Yes.”

“Where is that station?”

“On Fremont and First.”

“Quite close to here, correct?”

“Yes.”

“In fact you walked here from the station, with your kit, to testify today, isn’t that correct?”

“Yes.”

“Did you walk through Grand Park?”

“Yes.”

“Had you ever been in Grand Park before?”

“Yes.”

“When was that?”

“Many times. It’s part of Station Three’s coverage area.”

“Going back to the day you treated Jeffrey Herstadt at Starbucks, did Rescue Three receive another emergency call soon after your return to the station that morning?”

“Yes.”

“What was the call?”

“It was a stabbing. It was this case. The judge that got stabbed.”

Bosch glanced away from Morales to Saldano. She had leaned toward the junior prosecutor, who was sitting next to her, and whispered in his ear. He then got up and went to a cardboard file box that was on a chair by the courtroom rail. He started going through documents.

“Do you remember how soon you got the call after returning from treating Mr. Herstadt and checking his vitals?” Haller asked.

“Not offhand,” Morales said.

Haller went through the same procedure of asking the judge’s permission to give Morales an incident report, this one from the Montgomery stabbing.

“Does that shed light on things, Mr. Morales?” Haller asked.

“If you say so,” Morales countered.

“If you compare it to the first incident report, does it not say that the calls were one hour and nine minutes apart?”

“Looks like it.”

“So let’s keep going with this. You said you were with Herstadt for eleven minutes, then got a latte. How long did that take?”

“I don’t remember.”

“Do you remember if there was a line?”

“It was a Starbucks. There was a line.”

“Okay, so at least a few minutes there. Did you and your partner sit down with your lattes or take them to go?”

“Took them to go.”

“And you returned directly to the station?”

“Yes, direct.”

“Is there some sort of protocol or procedure you follow after returning from a rescue call?”

“We replenish supplies, write the reports.”

“Finish your latte first?”

“I don’t remember.”

“But then you get this call, a stabbing in Grand Park, correct?”

“Yes.”

“And you roll on it.”

“Yes.”

“How long did it take you and your partner to get there?”

Morales looked at the incident report.

“Four minutes,” he said.

“Was the victim, Judge Montgomery, alive when you got there?” Haller asked.

“He was circling the drain.”

“What does that mean?”

“He was dying. He’d lost too much blood and was unresponsive. No pulse. There was nothing we could really do for him.”

“You just said ‘no pulse.’ So you checked his vitals despite the fact that, as you say, ‘he was circling the drain’?”

There it was, Bosch knew. The trial came down to this question.

“We did. It’s protocol. No matter what, you do that.”

“With the oximeter?”

Morales didn’t answer. It looked to Bosch like he had finally tumbled to the importance of his testimony and realized that everything could shift on his answer.

“With the oximeter?” Haller asked again.

“Yes,” Morales finally said. “Part of the protocol.”

“Was that the same oximeter used less than an hour earlier to check the vitals of Jeffrey Herstadt?”

“It would have been.”

“Is that a yes?”

“Yes.”

“A moment, Your Honor.”

Haller let that last answer hang out there in front of the jury. Bosch knew that he was trying to make a decision about the next question. He fired off a quick text:

Ask the?

He saw Haller check his watch and read it.

“Mr. Haller?” Falcone prompted.

“Your Honor,” Haller said. “May I have another moment to confer with my investigator?”

“Make it fast,” Falcone said.

Bosch got up, slid his phone into his pocket, and walked up the aisle to the rail. Haller came over and they whispered.

“This is it,” Haller said. “I think I leave it here.”

“I thought you were rolling the dice,” Bosch said.

“I am. I did. But I go too far and I blow the whole thing.”

“If you don’t ask, the prosecutor will.”

“Don’t be so sure about that. Cuts both ways for her too. She might not ask him a thing.”

“It’s a search for truth. The judge said so; you said so. Ask the question. Or I’m not your investigator.”

Bosch turned to go back to where he had been sitting. For the first time he noticed Renée Ballard was in the courtroom, on the other side of the gallery. He had not seen her come in and had no idea how long she had been there.

Once seated, he turned his attention back to the front of the room. Haller was staring at Morales, still deciding whether to quit while he was ahead or ask the question that could win or lose the day—and the trial.

“Mr. Haller, do you have another question?” the judge prompted.

“Yes, Your Honor, I do,” Haller said.

“Then ask it.”

“Yes, Your Honor. Mr. Morales, between the two rescue calls you went out on, where was the oximeter?”

“In my kit.”

Bosch saw Haller ball his hand into a fist and bounce it lightly on the lectern like he was spiking a ball after a touchdown.

“You didn’t take it out?”

“No.”

“You didn’t clean or disinfect it?”

“No.”

“You didn’t sterilize it?”

“No.”

“Mr. Morales, do you know what DNA transfer is?”

Saldano jumped to her feet and objected. She argued that Morales was not a DNA expert and should not be allowed to give testimony regarding the transfer of DNA. Before the judge could respond, Haller did.

“I withdraw the question,” he said.

It was clear Haller knew the objection would come. He had just wanted to get the phrase DNA transfer into the record and the jury thinking about it. Haller’s next witness would close the deal on that.

“Then do you have another question, Mr. Haller?” the judge asked.

“No, Your Honor,” Haller said. “I have nothing further.”

Haller returned to the defense table, glancing back at Bosch and giving a nod as he went. Bosch checked the row of reporters. They seemed frozen. There was a stillness to the courtroom that underlined what Haller had just done with his questioning of Morales.

“Ms. Saldano, do you wish to cross-examine the witness or take some prep time?” the judge asked.

Bosch expected the prosecutor to ask for a 402 hearing—to tell the judge without the jury present how much time she would need to prepare for her cross-examination of Morales. The judge had already said he would give her wide latitude.

But the prosecutor surprised Bosch and probably everybody in the courtroom by rising and going to the lectern.

“Briefly, Your Honor,” she said.

She put a legal pad on the lectern, checked a note on it, and then looked up at the witness.

“Mr. Morales, do you carry only one oximeter in your EMT kit?” she asked.

“No,” Morales said. “I carry a backup. You know, in case the battery dies on one of them.”

“No further questions,” the prosecutor said.

Now in the silence, it felt like the momentum had switched. With a single question, Saldano had been able to undo much of what Haller had accomplished.

“Mr. Haller, anything further?” the judge asked.

Haller hesitated and asked the judge for a moment. Bosch tried to think of a question he could text him. It seemed as though any question asked might offer another opening to the prosecutor. He typed quickly and didn’t bother to correct typos:

Tel him open the kit.

He watched Haller check his watch. The judge noticed as well.

“I’ll stop you before you ask, Mr. Haller,” he said. “We are not taking the morning break until we are finished with this witness.”

“Thank you, Your Honor,” Haller said before turning his attention back to the witness. “Mr. Morales, can you open your kit again for us and show us where you keep both oximeters?”

Morales did as requested. The oximeter he had displayed to the jury was in the top tray of his kit. He then lifted the tray up, moved his hands over the contents of the deeper box until he found the other oximeter, and held it up.

“Thank you, you can close that up now,” Haller said.

He waited while Morales closed up his kit. He glanced back at Bosch and gave a slight nod. The momentum was about to switch again.

“So, Mr. Morales, when you said you had a backup oximeter, you are talking about having an extra one stored in the bottom of your kit, to use if the device you currently have in the top tray of your kit happens to have a malfunction or the battery dies on you, is that correct?”

Morales clearly knew that he was providing pivotal information to the jury, and his loyalties were to the state. He hesitated and then tried to fashion an answer that would not give Haller what he wanted.

“You never know,” he said. “We can use either one, depending on the situation.”

“Then why is one on the top of your box and the other beneath the tray and in the bottom?” Haller responded.

“That just happens to be how I packed the kit.”

“Really. So let me ask you a hypothetical question, Mr. Morales: Rescue Three gets a call. A man has been hit by a car on First Street. You respond. He is on the street, bleeding, unconscious. He’s ‘circling the drain,’ if you will. You open your kit. Do you grab the oximeter on the top tray, or do you lift that tray out and dig the other oximeter out of the bottom?”

As if on cue, Saldano objected, saying that Haller was again badgering his own witness. Haller withdrew the question because he knew the jury didn’t need to hear the answer. Common sense dictated that Morales would grab the oximeter in the top tray, and that he had done the same when he treated the fatally wounded Judge Montgomery.

“I have no further questions,” Haller said.

Saldano demurred, not wanting to dwell on the oximeter any longer. The judge asked Haller if he had any more witnesses.

“Yes, Your Honor, one final witness,” Haller said. “The defense would like to call Dr. Christine Schmidt to the stand.”

“Very well,” Falcone said. “We will take the morning break now and come back to hear from your last witness. Jurors, now is the time to use the restroom, get a cup of coffee. But be back in the assembly room and ready to go in fifteen minutes. Thank you.”

The judge made no move to leave the bench as the jurors got up and filed through the door at the end of the jury box. This meant court was not adjourned and Falcone would have more to say to the lawyers once the jurors were gone.

He waited until the last one went through the assembly room door before speaking.

“Okay, the jury is no longer present and we’re still on the record,” he began. “I don’t want to tell the lawyers here what to do, but it does seem to me that it would be a prudent use of the break if Ms. Saldano and Mr. Haller joined me in chambers to discuss the viability of this case going forward. Any objection to that?”

“No, Your Honor,” Haller said immediately.

“No, Your Honor,” Saldano echoed hesitantly.

After the lawyers filed back into the judge’s chambers, Bosch went out into the hallway. Christine Schmidt was sitting on a bench there, waiting to be called to testify. Witnesses were not allowed to hear other testimony in a trial, and therefore she was unaware of the testimony Morales had just given or the seismic change it had brought to the case. Bosch crossed the hallway to speak to her and simply explained that the lawyers were meeting with the judge and she could expect to testify afterward.

He then walked back across the wide hallway to another bench where Ballard was waiting. He sat down and she put her backpack between them.

“So, what just happened in there?” she asked.

“I think Haller just got a directed verdict of acquittal,” Bosch said. “At least that’s what I bet they’re talking about in chambers.”

“That testimony. He knocked down the DNA?”

“More like he set up a way to explain how the defendant’s DNA got under the judge’s fingernail. It was transferred.”

He nodded across the hall to the bench where Dr. Schmidt sat.

“That’s his DNA expert,” Bosch said. “She comes in next to talk about touch DNA, DNA transfer. Herstadt’s DNA was found under Judge Montgomery’s fingernail. One fingernail. The oximeter could have transferred it. It’s reasonable doubt right there. It will hang up the jury if not get the outright acquittal.”

“But wait,” Ballard said. “What about the guy’s confession? He admitted to the crime.”

“Haller blew that up yesterday. Herstadt’s schizophrenic. His doctor was on the stand saying he’s got the kind of psychosis that would lead him to agree to anything while under stress, say yes to anything, including murdering a judge in the park. I think Haller’s got this won. I think the judge thinks so too. That’s gotta be what they’re in chambers talking about.”

“And you gave him all of this?”

She said it in a tone that Bosch heard as distrustful, as if what he had done was part of a contrived scheme by the defense. It offended him.

“I gave him facts,” he said. “No tricks. I think what he laid out in there is what happened. Herstadt didn’t do it.”

“Sorry,” Ballard said quickly. “I didn’t mean to suggest … I liked Judge Montgomery. I told you that.”

“I liked him, too. I just want to make sure the right guy goes down for killing him, that’s all.”

“Of course. Of course. We all do.”

Bosch didn’t respond further. He still felt the heat of being unjustly accused of something. He turned and looked down the hallway at people going in and out of courtrooms, waiting on benches, wandering aimlessly in the halls of justice. He saw some of the jurors from the Montgomery case coming back from the restrooms.

“So why are you here?” he finally asked. “You get something at ballistics this morning?”

“Actually, no,” Ballard said.

Her tone had shifted. Bosch thought she was probably happy to change the subject after stepping into the shit with him on the trial.

“There was nothing in the data bank that matched the projectile or shell from Hilton,” she continued. “But at least it’s in there now should anything come up down the line.”

“Too bad,” Bosch said. “But we knew it was a long shot. What’s next? Rialto?”

“The more I find out about Elvin Kidd, the more I think the answer is out there.”

“What did you find now?”

Ballard pulled her backpack over and removed her laptop. She opened it and drew up side-by-side mug shots of a black man facing front and turned to the right.

“These are mug shots of Kidd from Corcoran, taken in 1989, the year he and John Hilton were both there. Now look at this.”

She pulled Hilton’s sketchbook out of the backpack. She opened it to a specific page and handed it to Bosch. He compared the drawing on the page to the man in the mug shots.

“It’s a match,” he said.

“They knew each other up there,” Ballard said. “I think they were lovers. And then when they both paroled out and came back to L.A., that was a problem for Kidd. He was a Crip OG. Any gay vibe and that could be fatal.”

“That’s a big jump. You nail down that he was gay?”

“Not at the moment, it’s just a guess. There’s something about the drawings in the sketchbook … then the whole drug addiction thing, the coldness of the parents in their statement. I’m still working that. Why—what do you know?”

“I don’t know anything about that. But I do remember that John Jack and I worked a few gay murders, and John Jack never got too motivated about them. It was his one flaw. He could never get the fire burning if it was a gay victim. I remember this one case—a one-nighter gone bad. An old guy picked up a young guy in West Hollywood, took him back to his place in the hills off Outpost. The kid robbed him, then beat him to death with his belt. It had a big rodeo buckle and it was a bad scene. And I remember John Jack said something that bothered me. He said, ‘Sometimes people deserve what they get.’ I’m not saying that’s wrong all the time—I’ve had cases where I believed that. But in that case it was wrong.”

“Everybody counts or nobody counts.”

“You got it.”

“So again we come to why did John Jack take the murder book?

Was it because he hated gays and didn’t want it solved?”

“That seems extreme. I don’t think we’re there yet.”

“Maybe not.”

They sat in silence for a few moments. More jurors were returning to the assembly room. Bosch knew he had to get back into the courtroom. More out of curiosity about what was happening than any duty to be in there.

“Doesn’t matter what Thompson did or didn’t do with the case,” Bosch said. “Or Hunter and Talis.”

“We’re still going to solve it,” Ballard said.

Bosch nodded.

“We are,” he said.

He stood up and looked down at Ballard.

“I need to get back in there. Are you going to Rialto?”

“No. West Hollywood. To see Hilton’s old roommate, see if I can confirm some of this.”

“Let me know how it goes.”

Bosch entered the courtroom as the last few jurors were returning to their places in the box and the judge turned in his high-backed chair so he could look directly at the panel when he spoke. Bosch slipped into his familiar spot in the last row of the gallery. He saw that both Haller and Saldano were in their seats and looking directly ahead, so Harry got no read from them on what was happening. Just as the judge was about to begin, the courtroom door opened and Jerry Gustafson, the lead LAPD detective on the case, hurried in and up the center aisle, then sat in the first row directly behind the prosecution table. Gustafson had been in and out of the courtroom during the days Bosch had attended trial sessions.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” Falcone began. “First of all, I want to thank you for your public service on this case. Jury duty can be time consuming, difficult, and sometimes even traumatic. You all have been troupers these past ten days and I and the state of California commend you and thank you.

“However, there has been a change and this case has come to an end. The District Attorney’s office has elected to drop all charges against Mr. Herstadt and not proceed further with the case at this time.”

There was the required buzz of whispers in the courtroom as a scattering of observers and the row of reporters reacted to the news. Bosch watched Haller’s back. He did not move and he made no motion toward his client to clap him on the arm or shoulder, no visual indication of victory.

Bosch did see Gustafson, who was leaning forward, arms on the courtroom rail, drop his head like a man kneeling in church, beseeching his god for a miracle.

But what confused Bosch was the judge’s last three words: at this time. What did that mean? He knew, as assuredly as the judge did, that to drop all charges at this point was tantamount to an acquittal. There were no comebacks. In California a trial is considered engaged the moment a jury is selected. To go after Herstadt again after this would invoke his double-jeopardy protections. Bosch had no doubt: the case against Jeffrey Herstadt was over.

Following his unclear explanation the judge thanked the jurors one more time and asked them to return to the assembly room and wait. He said the prosecution team wanted to talk to them. Bosch guessed that Saldano wanted to survey them to see where they stood on a verdict. The conversation might tell her whether she had made a critical mistake in dropping the case. It could also confirm she had made the right decision.

Falcone adjourned court and left the bench. Haller stood for the exit and finally looked around to see Bosch in the last row. He smiled and shot a finger at him, then blew on his finger as though it was the imaginary barrel of a gun. Finally, he reached down and squeezed his seated client’s shoulder. He bent down and started whispering in his ear.

Saldano and her second got up from the prosecution table and started making their way toward the jury assembly room door. Gustafson stood up and headed back down the aisle toward the courtroom exit. He stopped to look at Bosch. Years back they had worked together in the massive Robbery-Homicide Division squad room, but did not know each other well.

“Happy, Bosch?”

“What exactly happened?”

“Saldano dropped the case to keep her perfect record clean. Herstadt walks and whatever happens, that’s on you, asshole. I know you teed this up for Haller.”

“You still think he did it.”

“Fuck you, man. I know he did it and so do you.”

“What about the other five, Gustafson?”

“What five?”

“We got the murder book in discovery. You and your partner, you were chopping wood on five other people who would’ve been happy to have Montgomery dead, but you just dropped it when you got the DNA hit on Herstadt. You going to go back to them?”

Gustafson pointed to the front of the room where Haller was still whispering in Herstadt’s ear.

“There’s your killer right there, Bosch. I don’t have to go back to anybody. It was him, we had him, and then you blew it up. Good job. You should be proud. You just undid everything you ever did with a badge.”

“So that’s a no?”

“Bosch, as far as I’m concerned, this case is CBA. And that’s on you.”

Gustafson walked out of the courtroom.

Bosch remained seated, his face burning with indignation. He tried to calm himself while Haller finished with his client and allowed the courtroom deputy to take Herstadt back into the courthouse jail so he could be processed out and released. Haller quickly gathered his files and legal pads and threw them into his briefcase. He then snapped its two brass locks closed and came through the railing, where four reporters were waiting for him. Talking over one another, they peppered him with questions about exactly what had just happened in the judge’s chambers.

Haller told them he would answer their questions in the hallway. He led them out of the courtroom, winking at Bosch as they passed by his row. Then Bosch got up and followed them through the doors. Haller took a position in the middle of the hallway and the reporters gathered around him in a semicircle. Bosch stood outside the circle but close enough so he could hear what was said.

The reporters started shouting variations on the same questions.

“All right, all right, listen instead of talking and I shall enlighten you,” Haller said, his voice almost giddy from the courtroom win.

He waited for them to quiet before he continued.

“Okay, ready?” he said. “Faced with more than reasonable doubt about the evidence it presented to the jury, the state took the high road today and withdrew the flimsy case it had against my client. Mr. Herstadt is currently being processed out of holding and will be a free man shortly.”

“But this case started as a slam dunk,” said a reporter Bosch knew was from the Times. “They had a confession and a DNA match. What happened?”

Haller spread his arms and smiled.

“What can I tell you? Reasonable doubt for a reasonable fee,” he said. “What happened here was that they didn’t do their homework. The confession was bogus—it came from a man who would have confessed to killing the Black Dahlia if he had been asked. And there was a perfectly reasonable explanation for the DNA match. The judge saw that, knew this case was a duck without wings, and called the prosecution on it. Ms. Saldano made a call to her boss and reasonable minds prevailed. She did what any prudent prosecutor would do: she folded her tent.”

“So the case was dismissed?” asked another reporter.

“It was withdrawn by the D.A.’s Office,” Haller said. “They dropped all charges.”

“So that means they could still refile,” said a third reporter.

“Nope,” Haller said. “This case already went to trial. To charge my client again would be to submit him to double jeopardy. This case is over, folks, and an innocent man was proved so today.”

“Who did Saldano call to get approval to drop the case?” the Times reporter asked.

“I don’t know,” Haller said. “She stepped out of chambers to make that call. You’ll have to ask her.”

“What happens to your client now?” the Times reporter asked.

“He’s a free man,” Haller said. “I am going to see if I can get him a place to stay and back into therapy. I’m thinking of starting a GoFundMe page to help with his expenses. He’s got no home and no money. They’ve held him in jail for seven months.”

“Are you going to ask the city and county for reparations?” a reporter asked.

“Maybe,” Haller said. “I think amends have to be made. But that’s a question for another day. Thank you all. Remember, that’s a double el in Haller. Get it right.”

Haller stepped back from the semicircle and raised his arm in the direction of the elevators, dismissing the journalists. As she walked by him, the Times reporter handed him a business card and said something in a low voice Bosch didn’t hear. Haller took her card and slid it into the breast pocket of his suit jacket, behind the red-white-and-blue pocket square. He then sauntered over to Bosch, the smile seemingly a permanent feature of his face.

“You don’t get many days like this one, Harry.”

“I don’t suppose you do. What really happened in chambers?”

“Pretty much what I just told them. I left out the part about the judge telling Saldano that it looked to him like there was no way a jury could return a verdict of guilt beyond a reasonable doubt. He did give her the option of continuing and hearing my DNA expert and then my very persuasive motion to dismiss. That was when she stepped out and made her call to the powers that be. The rest is just like I told it. Maybe now they’ll go out and get the right guy for this.”

“I doubt it. Gustafson still thinks your client did the deed. He stopped by on his way out to tell me.”

“Wounded pride, that’s all that is. I mean, what else is he going to say?”

“Yeah, but don’t you see? He’s not going to go after the real killer. He said it himself as he was leaving: ‘CBA’—the case is closed.”

“Meaning?”

“Cleared By Arrest. It means no further investigation. Meantime, whoever really did this is still out there.”

“But that’s not our problem, is it? We work for Herstadt and Herstadt is free.”

“Maybe it’s not your problem.”

Haller stared at Bosch for a long moment before responding.

“I guess you gotta do what you gotta do.”

Bosch nodded.

“I’m going to hang on to the discovery files and the copy of the murder book.”

“Sure. Be my guest. I’ll be in touch soon about that other thing we talked about. The medical thing.”

“I’ll be around.”

BALLARD

Ballard woke with a deep soreness between her shoulder blades and pins and needles in her left foot. She sat up in the tent groaning and found that Lola had decided to sleep with all thirty-five pounds of her body across Ballard’s foot. She pulled her foot free, waking the dog, who looked at her with betrayal in her eyes.

“You crushed my foot,” Ballard said.

She began massaging and working her ankle until the burning feeling started to recede. Once she brought it back to life, she started rolling her shoulders, trying to loosen her back muscles. Before sleeping she had pushed herself on the board, paddling all the way down to the rock jetty at the inlet and then back up, the return being a battle against a strong wind coming down from Malibu.

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