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The crossing was slowed by the thick blanket of fog and it was an hour before I heard and felt the boat’s big engines thrum down as we slowly approached the harbor. I had not heard back from Jennifer and didn’t know if I would be met at the dock by police who had tracked my monitor. I got up and moved to a forward-viewing window. If I was about to be arrested, I needed to prep Kendall on what to do and whom to call.

The fog started to thin as we entered the harbor, and I saw the green span of the Vincent Thomas Bridge appear in the mist. Soon I saw the ferry terminal, but I noticed no sign of law enforcement on the dock. The parking lot where I had left the Lincoln was not in view because of the terminal building. I returned to Kendall and handed her the keys to the Lincoln.

“In case they’re waiting for me,” I said.

“Oh my god, Mickey! Do you think they are?” she said.

“Take it easy. I didn’t see anybody on the dock and that’s where they’d most likely be waiting. It’ll probably be fine, but just in case, you have the keys and can drive back. But before you go anywhere, you call Jennifer and tell her what’s happening. She’ll know what to do. I’m going to text you her contact.”

“Okay.”

“Then call Hayley and tell her too.”

“Okay. I can’t believe they’re doing this.”

She started to cry and I hugged her and assured her that everything would be okay. Privately I wasn’t as certain as I sounded.

We got off the boat and to the Lincoln without being stopped. My phone buzzed as we were getting in the car. It was Jennifer but I didn’t answer. I was paranoid and felt like a sitting duck. I wanted to get out of the parking lot and onto the freeway. A moving target was always harder to get a bead on.

Once we were on the 110 going north, I called Jennifer back.

“We’re on the calendar for three o’clock.”

“Good. And they aren’t going to try to grab me in the meantime?”

“That’s what Berg told the judge. You’ll be allowed to surrender in her courtroom following a hearing at three.”

“Did Berg object to the hearing?”

“I don’t know, but probably. But Warfield’s clerk tipped me that the judge is a bit upset about this—about the bail part, since she set bail and now the D.A.’s trying to take it away. So we’ll have that going for us when we go in.”

“Good. When and where do you want to meet beforehand?”

“I need time to work on points for your argument. How about one? We could meet in the cafeteria at the courthouse.”

I checked the dashboard clock. It was already ten thirty.

“One is good but not the courthouse. Too many badges around there, and somebody might try to be a hero and hook me up. Let’s not get to the courthouse till it’s time for the hearing.”

“Got it. Where, then?”

“How about Rossoblu? Since I might be back on a baloney diet after today, I’m going to eat some pasta for lunch.”

“Okay, I’ll be there.”

“One more thing if you have time. Get a message to the twins who have been covering this for the papers. Make sure they know about the hearing. I’d do it but I want to be able to say I didn’t if Berg accuses me of it again. Still, the media should be there to see this bullshit.”

“I’ll call them.”

We disconnected and Kendall immediately spoke.

“I want to be with you in court.”

“That would be nice. And I’ll call Hayley when we get home. I need to put on a suit and work a little bit on what I’m going to say to the judge, and then we’ll go to lunch.”

I knew it was going to be a working lunch and Kendall shouldn’t be there because she was outside the privilege circle. But I also knew that my freedom could be down to these last few hours. I didn’t want to exclude her.

It took us almost an hour to get to the house. I parked at the curb next to the stairs, still not wanting to use the garage. Bishop was sitting on the stairs, waiting. I had told him Friday we would start at ten on Tuesday, and he had been waiting. I had forgotten about him.

Kendall went up the stairs while I got our suitcase out of the trunk.

“Let me help you with that,” Bishop said.

“You’re my driver, not my valet, Bishop,” I said. “You been waiting long?”

“Not too long.”

“Sorry about that. But you’re going to have to wait another hour while I get ready and do some work inside. Then we’ll head downtown. You might be driving Kendall back by herself.”

“What about you? I go back for you?”

“I don’t think so. They’re going to try to put me back in jail today, Bishop.”

“They can do that? You got bail.”

“They can try. They’re the government. The beast. And the game is always rigged in the beast’s favor.”

I lugged the suitcase up the stairs and through the front door. Kendall was standing in the living room, holding an envelope out to me.

“Somebody slid this under the door,” she said.

I took the envelope and studied it while rolling the suitcase to the bedroom. It was a plain white envelope with nothing written on either side of it. The flap was not sealed.

After putting the suitcase on the bed for unpacking, I opened the envelope. It contained a single folded document. It was a photocopy of the face sheet of a Ventura County Sheriff’s Department arrest report dated December 1, 2018. The suspect arrested on suspicion of fraud was identified on the form as Sam Scales. The summary stated that Scales had used the name Walter Lennon to set up a funding site to raise money for the families of victims killed in a mass shooting the month before in a bar in Thousand Oaks. I didn’t need the arrest report to remember the incident at the Borderline Bar & Grill. A sheriff’s deputy and twelve customers were killed. The money-raising scam appeared to be very similar to the one Scales went to prison in Nevada for.

I walked into the home office to the desk, where I had left my case files. I was sure that the Ventura County arrest was not on the rap sheet we had received in discovery from the District Attorney’s Office. I opened the victim folder and found the arrest record. There was no listing of the arrest in December 2018.

Kendall followed me into the office.

“What is it?” she asked.

“An arrest report for Sam Scales,” I said. “A case over a year ago in Ventura County.”

“What does it mean?”

“Well, it’s not on the rap sheet the prosecution gave us in discovery.”

The face sheet of the arrest report was a form with various windows and boxes below the handwritten summary. Under the box where fraud had been checked off was another checklist where the box marked interstate had a slash through it. At the bottom of the list was a line where the author of the form had written “FBI-LA.”

“Were they trying to hide it from you?” Kendall asked.

I looked up at her.

“What?”

“Was the prosecutor trying to hide that arrest from you?”

“I think they didn’t know about it. I think the FBI came and scooped Sam up.”

Kendall looked confused but I did not explain further. My mind was racing ahead to the possibilities of what the arrest report could mean.

“I have to make a call,” I said.

I pulled my phone and called Harry Bosch. He answered right away.

“Harry, it’s me. I’m meeting Jennifer for lunch downtown, then I have to go to court. Can you meet us? I have something you need to see.”

“Where?”

“Rossoblu at one.”

“Rossoblu? Where’s that?”

“City Market South, off Eleventh.”

“I’ll be there.”

I disconnected. I felt a push of momentum. The arrest report could confirm a lot of things about Sam Scales and the case. It could also be a way to penetrate the FBI wall.

“Who put that under the door?” Kendall asked.

I thought about Agent Ruth but didn’t say her name.

“I think it was somebody who wanted to do the right thing,” I said.

In anticipation of my return to custody, the courtroom had three times the number of deputies usually on hand for a hearing involving a noncustodial defendant. They were posted by the door, in the gallery, and on the other side of the gate. It was clear from the start that no one was planning on my leaving the way I had come in.

My daughter had been unable to take me up on an invitation to lunch because of a class but now was in the front row of the gallery, directly behind the defense table. She sat next to Lorna, who sat next to Cisco. I hugged Hayley and spoke to each of them, trying to be encouraging even though it was hard for me to be encouraged myself.

“Dad, this is so unfair,” Hayley said.

“Nobody ever said the law is fair, Hay,” I told her. “Remember that.”

I moved down the line to Cisco. He had not been to lunch and didn’t know about the arrest report that had been slipped under my door. I had chosen Bosch to run with it because of his law enforcement pedigree. I believed he was better suited to make contact with the Ventura County sheriff’s investigator who had arrested Sam Scales.

“Anything new?” I asked.

He knew I was talking about the surveillance and the hopes of locating Louis Opparizio.

“Not as of this morning,” he said. “The guy’s a ghost.”

I nodded, disappointed, and then moved through the gate to the defense table, where I sat down alone and collected my thoughts. I had beat Jennifer to the courtroom from our lunch because she had to find parking in the black hole while I’d had Bishop drop Kendall and me at the front door. I looked at notes from our lunch meeting and rehearsed in my mind what I would say to the judge. I had never been nervous or intimidated in a courtroom. I had always felt at home and fed off the animosity that was usually directed at the defense from the prosecution table, the bench, sometimes even the jury box. But this was different. I knew that if I failed here, I would be the one who was escorted through the steel door into lockup. Before, when I was arrested, there had been no opportunity to argue my case before being booked. This time I had a chance. It was a long shot because the state was within the rule of law in making its moves. But that didn’t make it right and I had to convince the judge of that.

My concentration broke when I noticed Dana Berg and her bow-tied second take seats at the prosecution table. I didn’t turn to look at them. I didn’t say good afternoon. This had gotten personal, with Berg repeatedly seeking to take away my freedom to prepare my case unfettered. She was now the enemy and I would treat her as such.

Jennifer slid into the seat next to me.

“Sorry, no parking in the black hole,” she said. “I had to go down to a pay lot on Main.”

She seemed out of breath. The parking lot must have been more than a few blocks down Main.

“No worries,” I said. “I’m ready to go.”

She turned in her seat to acknowledge our line of supporters, then turned back to me.

“Bosch not coming?” she asked.

“I think he wanted to get going,” I said. “You know, head up to Ventura.”

“Right.”

“Listen, if this doesn’t turn out the way we want it to and I go back to Twin Towers, you’ll need to deal with Bosch on the Ventura thing. Make sure there’s no paper. He’s not used to how we work things on the defense side. No paper, no discovery. Okay?”

“Got it. But things are going to work out, Mickey. We’re going to tag-team them and we are a damn good team.”

“I hope so. I like your confidence—even if the whole legislature and penal code is against us.”

I turned and made one more sweep of the gallery, making momentary eye contact with the two reporters who were in their usual places in the second row.

A few minutes later the deputy called the courtroom to order as Judge Warfield came through the door to chambers and took the bench.

“Back on the record with California versus Michael Haller,” she said. “We have new charges filed in the case, warranting a custody-and-arraignment hearing as well as a reading of the indictment. And we have a six-eight-six motion from the defense as well. Let’s start with the charges.”

I waived a formal reading of the indictment.

“How do you plead?” Warfield asked.

“Not guilty,” I said crisply.

“Very well,” Warfield said. “Now let us take up the issue of pretrial release or detention. And I have a feeling we are going to have a lot of back-and-forth between the lawyers today, so let’s remain at our respective tables to reduce traffic and time. Please speak loudly and clearly when addressing the court so the record will be clear. What is the position of the People, Ms. Berg?”

Berg stood up at the prosecution table.

“Thank you, Your Honor,” she began. “This morning, previous charges in this case were dropped after the Los Angeles County grand jury delivered an indictment of J. Michael Haller on a charge of first-degree murder under special circumstances outlined by the state legislature, to wit, murder for financial gain. It is the People’s position that this is a no-bail offense and we are seeking detention pending trial. There is a presumption—”

“I’m well aware of what the law presumes, Ms. Berg,” Warfield said. “I am sure Mr. Haller is as well.”

Warfield seemed annoyed by the state’s effort to incarcerate me and also by having her hands tied in the matter. She appeared to write something on a document up on the bench. She took a few moments to finish before looking down at me.

“Mr. Haller, I assume you want to be heard?” she asked.

I rose from my seat.

“Yes, Your Honor,” I said. “But first I’d like to know whether the state is seeking the death penalty under this new charge.”

“Good question,” Warfield said. “That would change things considerably, Ms. Berg. Has your office decided to seek the death penalty in your case against Mr. Haller?”

“No, Your Honor,” Berg said. “The People will waive the death penalty.”

“You have your answer, Mr. Haller,” the judge said. “Do you have anything else?”

“Yes, I do, Judge,” I said. “Legal precedent holds that once the death penalty has been taken off the table, this is no longer a capital case, notwithstanding that I face a sentence of life without parole. Ms. Berg must also convince the court that guilt is evident and the presumption thereof is great. In and of itself, the indictment is insufficient to prove that guilt is evident, and Ms. Aronson will further address this issue.”

Jennifer stood.

“Your Honor, Jennifer Aronson, representing Mr. Haller on this issue,” she said. “Mr. Haller will argue the six-eight-six motion himself when that comes up. As to the indictment before the court, it is the defense’s position that the prosecution has gone outside the bounds of fair play to deprive Mr. Haller of his freedom as he prepares to defend himself in this matter. This is no more than a ploy to handicap Mr. Haller’s ability to defend himself by putting him in a jail cell, where he cannot work full-time on his defense, is in constant danger from other prisoners, and risks his health as well.”

She looked down at her notes before continuing.

“The defense also challenges the allegation of special circumstances in this case,” she said. “Though we have not seen this new evidence that the prosecution claims will show Mr. Haller’s financial gain from the murder of Samuel Scales, it is preposterous to think, let alone prove, that his death would in any way result in gain to Mr. Haller.”

Warfield was again writing when Jennifer finished, and Berg took the opportunity to respond. She stood and addressed the judge while the pen was still moving in her hand.

“Your Honor, the indictment by the grand jury precludes a preliminary hearing on the charges, and the state would object to turning this hearing into a determination of probable cause. The legislature is quite clear on that.”

“Yes, I know the rules, Ms. Berg,” Warfield said. “But the legislature also gives a superior court judge in this state the power of discretion. I join Ms. Aronson in being troubled by this move by the prosecution. Are you prepared for the court to use its discretion and rule on bail in this matter without providing further support of probable cause?”

“A moment, Your Honor,” Berg said.

For the first time today, I looked over at the prosecution table. Berg was conferring with her second. It was clear that the judge, a former defense attorney, did not approve of the game Berg was playing to put me back in jail. It was put-up-or-shut-up time, no matter what she had been able to run by the grand jury. I saw the second open one of the files in front of him and take out a document. He handed it to Berg, who then straightened up to address the court.

“May it please the court, the People wish to call a witness in this matter,” she said.

“Who is the witness?” Warfield asked.

“Detective Kent Drucker. He will introduce a document that I am sure the court will see in support of probable cause regarding the special-circumstances allegation.”

“Call your witness.”

I had not seen Drucker earlier, but there he was in the front row of the gallery. He got up and went through the gate. He was sworn in and took the stand. Berg began by eliciting from him the details of the searches conducted of my home and warehouse, as well as the home of Lorna Taylor.

“Let’s talk specifically about the records you searched at the warehouse,” Berg then said. “What exactly were you looking at there?”

“These were nonprivileged files relating to the business of Michael Haller’s law practice,” Drucker said.

“In other words, the billing of clients?”

“Correct.”

“And was there a file relating to Sam Scales?”

“There were several because Haller had represented him in a number of cases over the years.”

“And in searching these files, did you find any documents pertinent to your investigation of his murder?”

“I did.”

Berg then went through the formality with the judge of gaining approval to show the witness a document he had found in my files. I had no idea what it could be until the prosecutor dropped off a copy at the defense table after handing the judge’s copy to her clerk. Jennifer and I leaned toward each other so we could read it at the same time.

It was a copy of a letter apparently sent to Sam Scales in 2016 while he was awaiting sentencing for a fraud conviction.

Dear Sam,

This will be the last correspondence from me and you will have to find yourself a new attorney to handle your sentencing next month—if you do not pay the legal fees agreed to during our meeting of October 11. My agreed-to fee for handling your case was $100,000 plus expenses with a $25,000 retainer. This agreement was made regardless of whether your case went to trial or was handled in disposition. It subsequently was handled by disposition and sentencing is set. The remainder of the fee—$75,000—is now owed.

I have handled several prior cases involving you as a defendant and know that you keep a legal fund so that you can pay your lawyers for the good work they perform for you. Please pay this invoice or consider this the termination point of our professional relationship, with more serious action to follow.

Sincerely,
p.p. Michael Haller

“Lorna wrote this,” I whispered. “I never saw it. Besides, it means nothing.”

Jennifer stood and objected.

“Your Honor, may I voir dire?” she asked.

It was a fancy way of asking if she could question the witness about the origin and relevancy of the document before the judge accepted it as a prosecution exhibit.

“You may,” Warfield said.

“Detective Drucker,” Jennifer began. “This letter is unsigned, true?”

“That is true, but it was in Mr. Haller’s files,” Drucker said.

“Do you know what the ‘p.p.’ before Mr. Haller’s printed name means?”

“It’s Latin for pro per-something.”

“Per procurationem—do you know what it means?”

“That it was sent under his name but he didn’t actually sign it.”

“You said you found this in Mr. Haller’s files. So it was never mailed?”

“We believe it is a copy and the original was sent.”

“Based on what?”

“Based on it being found in a file marked ‘Correspondence.’ Why would he keep a file full of letters he didn’t send? It makes no sense.”

“What evidence do you have that this letter was ever mailed or delivered directly to Mr. Scales?”

“I assume it was mailed or delivered. How else would Mr. Haller expect to get paid?”

“Do you have any evidence that Mr. Scales ever received this letter?”

“Again, no. But that is not what is important about the letter.”

“Then, what is important about the letter?”

“Mr. Haller says he knows that Sam Scales kept a fund to pay his lawyer and he wanted another seventy-five thousand. That is motive to kill.”

“Do you suppose that Mr. Haller knew about the fund because Sam Scales told him?”

“That would make sense.”

“Did Sam Scales reveal to Mr. Haller where he kept that fund and how to access it?”

“I have no idea, but it would be covered under attorney-client privilege.”

“If you can’t show that Mickey Haller knows where Sam Scales kept his money, how can you claim that he killed Sam Scales for his money?”

Berg had had enough and stood.

“I object, Your Honor,” she said. “This isn’t voir dire. Ms. Aronson is conducting a discovery deposition.”

“I can see what she is doing, Ms. Berg,” Warfield said. “And she has made her point. Anything further, Ms. Aronson?”

Jennifer checked me and I gave a slight shake of my head, reminding her that a lawyer should always quit talking when she’s ahead.

“No further questions at this time, Your Honor,” she said. “It is clear from the detective’s testimony as well as the document that it was not signed or written by Mr. Haller and has no relevancy to this hearing.”

“Judge, the relevancy is clear,” Berg countered. “Whether or not it was signed by the defendant, it was sent by his office and it references a meeting he attended. It is clearly relevant because it speaks to the issues and motives surrounding this crime—that the defendant was owed money and knew that Sam Scales, the victim, had the money and wouldn’t part with it. We have further documentation we are ready to present that shows the defendant filed a lien against the victim in furtherance of collecting his money. That lien is now lodged against the estate. If money is found, the defendant is in line to receive it, plus interest. He could not get Sam Scales to pay him in life—he hopes to collect from him in death.”

“Objection!” Jennifer yelled.

“Ms. Berg, you know better,” Warfield said. “Leave your sound bites for the reporters, not this court.”

“Yes, Your Honor,” Berg said, her tone falsely contrite.

The judge dismissed Drucker from the witness stand. I knew it was fruitless. The judge would either be canny and object to what the prosecution was doing or let it slide. Warfield asked if there was any further argument and Berg demurred while Jennifer asked to address the court.

“Thank you, Your Honor,” she said. “The court noted earlier that it has wide discretion over bail. The bail schedule is meant to protect the community as well as ensure that defendants accused of crimes are held to answer. To these points, I believe it is clear that Michael Haller is neither a threat to the community nor a threat to flee. He has been free on bond now for six weeks and he hasn’t attempted to flee. He hasn’t threatened the community or anyone associated with this case. In fact, he has sought and received the court’s permission to leave the county and state and yet returned the same night. Your Honor, you do have discretion in the matter and it is in pursuit of a fair trial in this case that I ask that bond be carried over from the original charge and that Mr. Haller be allowed to remain free to defend himself.”

Berg’s comeback was only to remind the judge that rules were rules. She said judicial discretion did not extend to the findings of a grand jury or to the legislature’s decision to make murder for financial gain a no-bail charge.

She then sat down.

I didn’t think we had a winning argument, but the judge built anticipation in the courtroom as she wrote notes before speaking.

“We’ll hear the other motion before I make a decision on this matter,” she said. “We are going to take a ten-minute break first and then we’ll consider Mr. Haller’s six-eight-six motion. Thank you.”

The judge quickly left the bench. And I was left with ten minutes to figure out how to turn things around.

It might have been my last chance to walk the halls of the courthouse, even ride the elevator down and step outside to enjoy a few moments of free, fresh air, but I remained at the defense table during the ten-minute break, which actually lasted twenty. I wanted to be alone with my thoughts. I even told Jennifer I didn’t want her next to me when court resumed. She might have been hurt, but she understood my reasoning. It was me against the state, and while I would not be speaking to a jury, I wanted the judge to be reminded of the fact that I was one man standing alone against the power and might of the beast.

I composed myself to be ready at the ten-minute mark and then dealt with the anxiety of waiting in overtime. Finally Warfield came out and retook her position on the bench above everyone.

“Very well, back on the record,” she said. “We have a motion from the defense to compel a speedy trial. Mr. Haller, I see you are now alone at the defense table. You will be arguing this motion?”

I stood up.

“Yes, Your Honor,” I said.

“Very well,” Warfield said. “I hope we can be succinct. Proceed.”

“If it please the court, I will be succinct. What the prosecution has done with its grand jury indictment is attempt to subvert the law and my constitutionally guaranteed right to a speedy trial. It’s a shell game, Your Honor, played by the prosecution not in the furtherance of justice but in the gaming of it. There have been two constants since the very first minutes of this case. One is that I have steadfastly denied these charges and claimed my innocence. The other is my refusal under any circumstances to delay these proceedings for any amount of time.”

I paused for a moment and looked down at the notes I had scribbled on my legal pad. I didn’t need them. I was on a roll. But I wanted the space so the judge could take in my argument in pieces.

“Since day one I have demanded my right to a speedy trial,” I continued. “I have said put up or shut up to the state. I did not commit this crime and I demand my day in court. And as that day has drawn closer and the prosecution knows it’s almost time, they have blinked. They know their case is weak. They know it is full of holes. They know I have innocence and reasonable doubt on my side and they have attempted to thwart my defense at every turn.”

I paused again, this time turning slightly to look back at my daughter and offer a wistful smile. No man should have his daughter see him in this position.

I turned back.

“Judge, every lawyer’s got a bag of tricks—prosecutor, defense attorney, doesn’t matter. There is nothing pure about the law when you get inside a courtroom. It’s a bare-knuckle fight and each side uses whatever it can to bludgeon the other. The constitution guarantees me a speedy trial, but by dropping the original charge and talking a grand jury into a new one, the prosecution is trying to bludgeon me in two ways: stick me in a jail cell so I am handicapped in preparing my defense, and restart the game clock so the state has more time to wield its power and might and shore up their losing case against me.”

This time I kept my eyes on the judge as I paused before the windup.

“Is it legal? Is it within code? Perhaps. I’ll give them that. But is it fair? Is it in the pursuit of justice? Not a chance. You can stick me back in jail, you can delay the search for truth that a trial is supposed to be, but it won’t be the right thing to do and it won’t be fair. The court holds a lot of discretion in this regard and the defense urges you not to restart the clock. Let’s get to the search for the truth now instead of later, instead of at the prosecution’s convenience. Thank you, Your Honor.”

If my words had any impact on Warfield, she didn’t show it. She didn’t write anything down as she had during the earlier motion. She simply swiveled six inches in her high-backed, leather chair so that her gaze shifted from me to the prosecution table.

“Ms. Berg?” she said. “Would the state like to respond?”

“Yes, Your Honor,” Berg said. “I promise to be more succinct than the defense. In fact, Mr. Haller made my argument for me. What we have done with the refiling of the case through grand jury indictment is firmly within the bounds of the law as well as something that happens routinely in this courthouse and courthouses across the country. It is not a do-over or a delay tactic. I am charged with seeking true justice for the victim of this cold-blooded murder. Through the grand jury and the presentation of evidence from the ongoing investigation, we have elected to upgrade the charges in the pursuit of justice.”

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