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In my peripheral vision I saw Berg glance my way as she threw my own words back at me. I did not give her the satisfaction of a look back.

“Your Honor, the case against the defendant is strong and getting stronger as the investigation of this crime continues. That’s what the defendant knows, that is what he is trying to subvert: a search for truth with all the evidence on the table. It is his hope that by hurrying into trial, he can stop the mounting evidence from crushing him. That won’t happen, because the truth is inevitable. Thank you.”

The judge paused before speaking, possibly waiting to see whether I would stand to object or respond to Berg. She even swiveled her chair back toward me as if expecting it. But I held my ground. I had made my points and there was no need to restate them.

“This is a novel situation,” Warfield began. “It has been my experience as a judge—and as a defense attorney in a prior life—that it is the defendant who most often seeks delays, seemingly in an effort to put off the inevitable. But not in this case. And so the arguments today give me pause. Mr. Haller clearly wants this behind him—no matter the outcome. He also wants to be free to build his case.”

The judge swiveled toward Berg.

“On the other hand, the state gets only one shot at this,” she said. “There are no do-overs and therefore time to prepare is key. There are new charges in the case and the state bears the responsibility of being able to support those charges to a level far above the probable-cause threshold found by the grand jury. The burden of proof—proving guilt beyond a reasonable doubt—is just as heavy as the burden carried by the defense.”

The judge straightened her seat and leaned forward, clasping her hands together.

“The court is inclined in these matters to split the baby. And I will let the defense choose how that split is made. Mr. Haller, you decide. I will continue your bail with all the existing restrictions but you will waive your right to a speedy trial. Or I will revoke bail but refuse to change the case calendar, leaving the start of trial on this matter set for the eighteenth of February. How do you wish to proceed?”

Before I could stand and respond, Berg did.

“Your Honor,” she said urgently. “May I be heard?”

“No, Ms. Berg,” the judge said. “The court has heard all it needs to hear. Mr. Haller, will you make a choice, or would you like me to allow Ms. Berg to choose?”

I stood slowly.

“A moment, Your Honor?” I asked.

“Make it fast, Mr. Haller,” Warfield said. “I am in an uncomfortable position that I will not hold for long.”

I turned toward the railing behind the defense table and looked at my daughter. I signaled her closer and she slid forward on her seat, putting her hands on top of the rail. I leaned down and put my hands on top of hers.

“Hayley, I want this over with,” I whispered. “I didn’t do this and I think I can prove it. I want to go in February. You going to be okay with that?”

“Dad, it was so hard when they had you in jail before,” she whispered back. “Are you sure?”

“It’s like what you and your mother and I talked about. I’m free right now, but inside I feel like I’m still locked up as long as this is hanging over me. I need it to be over.”

“I know. But I worry.”

From behind me I heard the judge.

“Mr. Haller,” she said. “We are waiting.”

I kept my eyes on my daughter.

“It’s going to be all right,” I said.

I quickly leaned over the rail and kissed her on the forehead. I then glanced at Kendall and nodded. I could tell by the look of surprise on her face that she expected more, she expected to be consulted. That I had sought my daughter’s approval on this choice rather than hers might doom our relationship. But I did what I felt I had to do.

I turned back to the judge and announced my decision.

“Your Honor, I surrender myself to the court at this time,” I said. “And I will be ready to defend myself on the charges on February eighteenth as scheduled. I am innocent, Judge, and the faster I can get to a jury to prove it, the better.”

The judge nodded, seemingly not surprised but concerned by my decision.

“Very well, Mr. Haller,” she said.

She made it official with rulings from the bench, but not without a final objection from the prosecution.

“Your Honor,” Berg said. “The People ask that your ruling on the trial date be stayed while under review by the Second District Court of Appeal.”

Warfield looked at her for a long moment before replying. It is always a risky move to tell a judge you are appealing a ruling from the bench when you still have a whole trial before the same judge ahead of you. Judges are supposed to be impartial, but when you announce you are going to a higher court to complain that your lower court judge was in error, well, there are ways for that jurist to even the score down the line. A perfect example is what Judge Hagan did to me at my first appearance on this case. I had reversed him twice on appeal. He paid me back by slapping me with a $5 million bail. He all but winked and smiled at me when he did it. Berg was walking a similar line with Warfield now, and it looked like the judge was giving her a few seconds to reconsider.

But Berg waited her out.

“Ms. Berg, I’ll now give you a choice,” Warfield finally said. “I won’t stay the ruling on the six-eight-six motion without staying the ruling on Mr. Haller’s bail revocation. So if you want a stay while you appeal, then Mr. Haller remains free under the current bail arrangement until you get a ruling from the appellate court.”

The two women locked eyes for a tense five seconds before the prosecutor responded.

“Thank you, Your Honor,” Berg said coldly. “The People withdraw the request for a stay.”

“Very well,” Warfield responded with just as much ice. “Then I think we are adjourned here.”

As the judge stood up, the deputies in the room moved toward me. I was going back to Twin Towers.

Friday, January 24

I was placed back in K-10, the high-power module at Twin Towers where they housed inmates on keep-away status. The only problem I had with this was that I wanted to be kept away from the jailers more than from the jailed. The investigation that had followed the eavesdropping scandal had put the mark on me and I knew the potential that the jail deputies would get back at me physically had increased exponentially.

Bishop was long gone and I needed new protection. In a way, I held auditions. I spoke to a handful of men in the module the morning after my arrival, attempting to learn whom I might be able to trust, who might have greater enmity for the hacks than I did. I settled on a guy named Carew, who was physically impressive and being held on a murder charge. I didn’t know the details of the case and didn’t ask for them. But I learned that he had private counsel and I knew that a murder defense cost serious money. I offered him four hundred a week to watch my back and settled the negotiation at five hundred delivered weekly to his attorney.

The days in the jail fell into the same routine as the earlier stint, with my team coming in to conference most afternoons at three. It seemed that our nets had already been cast and we were in the stage where we were looking through the catch and devising our strategy. My energy and outlook remained high. I was confident in the case. I just wanted to get to it.

The only break from the routine came three days after my re-arrest when I was taken to the visitors’ center and sat down in front of my first ex-wife, Maggie McPherson. Her coming to see me embarrassed me and made my heart swell at once.

“Is anything wrong?” I said. “Is Hayley all right?”

“Everything’s fine out here,” she said. “I just wanted to see you. How are you, Mickey?”

I was ashamed of my situation and my jailhouse blues. I could imagine how I must appear to her, especially after her taking exception to the way I had looked outside jail.

“All things considered, I’m okay,” I said. “The trial’s soon and this will all be over.”

“Are you ready?” she asked.

“More than ready. I think we’re going to win this thing.”

“Good. I don’t want our daughter to lose her father.”

“She won’t. She’s what keeps me going.”

Maggie nodded and said nothing more on it. I read the reason for her visit as her checking on my health and state of mind.

“It means a lot to me that you came here,” I said.

“Of course,” she said. “And if you need anything, call me—collect.”

“I will. Thanks.”

The visit only lasted fifteen minutes but I came away from it feeling stronger. With family, as splintered as it was, behind me, I felt like I couldn’t lose.

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.”

“Why would that be, Ms. Berg?”

“Because they were turned over to the Salvation Army after the defendant and his crew visited Ms. Dietrich. It is quite obvious that the defense had a strategy to keep whatever information was in the victim’s belongings from the People, Your Honor.”

“That is a lot of supposition. Do you have anything that backs that up?”

“We have a sworn statement from Rose Marie Dietrich that states unequivocally that she was told by the defendant that she could donate the property.”

“Then let me take a look at that.”

Berg dropped off a copy of the statement with me after handing one to the clerk for the judge. There was silence for a minute or so as Jennifer and I huddled together to read the witness statement at the same time as the judge.

“Okay, the court has read the document,” Warfield said. “I’d like to hear from Mr. Haller on this matter next.”

I got up and went to the lectern as Berg abandoned it. I had decided on the bus ride over to go full-on sarcastic with my response as opposed to full-on outraged.

“Good morning, Judge,” I said good-naturedly. “I would like to begin by saying that normally I would welcome any opportunity to leave the spare accommodations afforded me at the Twin Towers Correctional Facility, courtesy of Ms. Berg, to be in court, but this time I am baffled by the reason I’m here and the logic of her argument. It seems to me, Your Honor, that she should be seeking sanctions against her own team of investigators, not the defense.”

“Mr. Haller,” Warfield said in a tired tone. “As I said to Ms. Berg, let’s stay on point. Please respond directly to the discovery issue that the prosecution has raised.”

“Thank you, Judge. My response is to say there has been no discovery violation. I have no documents to turn over and I have hidden nothing from the prosecution. Yes, we went to the address in question and looked through the contents of the boxes stored there. I took nothing from those boxes, and I guarantee that Ms. Berg’s investigators asked Rose Marie Dietrich what we took. Unhappy with the response they got to that question, Ms. Berg chose not to include the answer in this piece of paper she claims is a statement of fact. It’s got some facts listed here, Judge, but not all of them.”

“Judge?” Berg said, rising from her seat.

“Your Honor, I’m not finished,” I said quickly.

“Ms. Berg, you had your turn,” Warfield said. “Let counsel finish and then you will get a chance to respond.”

Berg sat back down and started writing furiously on her legal pad.

“In closing, Your Honor,” I said. “There is no subterfuge here. The court recalls that three weeks ago in a teleconference hearing that Ms. Berg was party to, I asked permission to leave the county and state. I assume the court reporter has a record of that hearing, and it will reveal that the prosecution asked specifically whom I was going to see at High Desert State Prison in Nevada. And I said I was going to visit the former cellmate of the victim in this case. If Ms. Berg or any of the many investigators at her disposal had bothered to follow up and talk to that man in Nevada, they would have gotten the same address and alias for Sam Scales that I got, and in fact could have beaten me to the location we’re talking about here. Your Honor, again I say that this is nothing but sour grapes. The discovery obligations of the defense require that I turn over to Ms. Berg a witness list and copies of anything I intend to offer into evidence. I have done that. I am not required to share with Ms. Berg my interviews, observations, or other work product. She knows that. But since day one, the prosecution’s investigation has been lazy, sloppy, and shoddy. I am confident that I will prove that at trial, but the sad thing is, there shouldn’t be a trial. The prosecution has—”

“Okay, let me stop you right there, Mr. Haller,” the judge said. “I believe you have more than made your point. You can return to your seat now.”

“Thank you, Your Honor,” I said.

Usually when a judge tells you to sit down it means that all that needs to be said has been said and a decision has been made.

The judge swiveled in her chair and focused on Berg.

“Ms. Berg, do you recall the teleconference referred to by counsel?” she asked.

“Yes, Your Honor,” Berg said.

There was no emotion in her tone. She had taken the same cue I had when Warfield told me to sit down.

“It appears to me that the state had every opportunity to follow and find this location and the victim’s belongings,” Warfield said. “The court tends to agree with Mr. Haller that this is about work product and a missed opportunity, not about any gamesmanship on the part of the defense. Certainly nothing I would consider a violation of discovery.”

Berg stood but did not move to the lectern, a sign that her protest was going to be half-hearted, no matter what she had scribbled on her legal pad.

“He waited three weeks to put her on the witness list,” she said. “He was hiding her importance. There should have been a written report about the interview and the search of the property. That is exactly what the spirit and intention of discovery is.”

I started to rise to object but the judge made a signal with her hand, gesturing me back into my chair.

“Ms. Berg,” the judge intoned, the first note of annoyance in her voice. “If you are suggesting that Mr. Haller is under an obligation to document his investigation with reports of his moves and interviews just like a law enforcement agency and then immediately decide whether he will call Ms. Dietrich as a witness, then you must take me for a fool.”

“No, Your Honor,” Berg said quickly. “Not at all.”

“Very well, then. We’re done here. The motion for sanctions is denied.”

The judge looked over at the calendar that hung on the wall over the clerk’s corral.

“We are thirteen days from jury selection,” she said. “I am setting a hearing for next Thursday at ten a.m. for final motions. I want to handle everything on that day. That means, get your paperwork in with enough time for the court to consider it. I want no surprises. I will see you all then.”

The judge adjourned court and I felt the dread of incarceration return before Deputy Chan and his cohorts could even get to me.

Upon my second arrest I was placed back in a single-bed cell at Twin Towers. This time I had even graduated to the outside wall of the jail, which gave me a window—only four inches wide and escape-proof, but it had a partial view of the Criminal Courts Building just a few blocks away as the crow flies. It was enough of a view for me to want to stay in the cell with my eyes on the prize rather than congregate in the dayroom with the other keep-aways. And this, even though I had replaced Bishop with Carew.

So I was feeling safe and secure in the module. The problem was that there were no such protections on the jail buses that moved hundreds of inmates to and from court each day. Whom you rode with and whom you were chained to was mostly a matter of chance. Or so it appeared. No matter what measure I took to protect myself in custody, I was always going to be most vulnerable on the bus. I knew this for a fact because I’d had clients attacked on the buses. And I had seen fights break out and attacks staged while riding them myself.

After the hearing on the prosecution’s motion for sanctions, I waited two hours in the courthouse jail before being shuttled onto a bus back to the Towers. I was cuffed fourth on a chain behind three other men and moved onto the bus. We were put into the second-to-last compartment and I was seated against the barred window in the forward-facing bench. The deputy checked us, closed the gate and locked it, and proceeded to fill the next compartment. I leaned forward to look across the man next to me to the prisoner seated on my row against the opposite window. I recognized him but not from the keep-away module. I couldn’t place him. It could have been from court or a potential client meeting in which I didn’t take the case. He was checking me out as I was checking him. And that fired my paranoia. I knew I had to keep a watch on him.

The bus exited the garage beneath the courts building and trundled up the steep grade to Spring Street. As it turned left, City Hall was on the right side, and several prisoners followed the tradition of flipping the finger at the seat of power. This of course could not be seen by anyone on the marble steps or behind the windows of the iconic building. The bus’s “windows” were actually slotted metal that allowed a confined view out but no view in.

I watched the man I was curious about hold his hand up and extend the fuck-you finger. He did it so routinely, without even looking out through the slots himself, that I knew he was a regular guest of the system. And that was when I recognized him. He was the client of a colleague whom I had once filled in for during a hearing before a judge. It had been a babysitting job, a minor hearing that involved a court appearance. Dan Daly had been stuck in a trial and asked me to handle it and I did.

Satisfied that I had answered the question and that the man posed no special threat, I relaxed and leaned back in my seat, tilting my head up to look at the ceiling. I started counting the days until the start of my trial and how soon I could reasonably expect to walk free after a not-guilty verdict.

It was the last thing I remembered.

Thursday, February 6

I could only open my eyes to narrow slices of light. It wasn’t the harshness of the light that prevented me from opening them wider. It was physical impediment. I simply could not do it.

I was disoriented at first, not sure where I was.

“Mickey?”

I turned at the voice, recognized it. “Jennifer?”

The one word set fire to my throat, the pain so sharp I grimaced.

“Yes, I’m here. How do you feel?”

“I can’t see. What—”

“Your eyes are swollen. You burst a lot of blood vessels.”

I burst blood vessels? This didn’t make sense.

“What do you mean?” I asked. “How did I—ahh, it hurts to talk.”

“Don’t talk,” Jennifer said. “Just listen. We went over this an hour ago and then the sedation hit and you went out again. You were attacked, Mickey. On the jail bus after court yesterday.”

“Yesterday?”

“Don’t talk. Yes, you’ve lost a day. But if you can stay awake, I can get them in here to do the testing. They need to check your brain function to see if there was anything … so we’ll know if there is any … anything permanent.”

“What happened on the bus?”

The pain.

“I don’t know all the details and the sheriff’s investigator wants to talk to you about it—he’s waiting outside but I told him I was going to talk to you first. Basically, another man on the bus got his chain free and used it to choke you. He was behind you and wrapped it around your neck. They thought you were dead but paramedics revived you, Mickey. They say it’s a miracle you’re alive.”

“It doesn’t feel like a miracle. Where am I?”

I was beginning to be able to manage the pain. Talking in a monotone, turning my head slightly to the left seemed to lessen it.

“County-USC—the jail ward. Hayley and Lorna and everybody wanted to come in to see you but you’re on lockdown and they’d only let me in. I don’t think you want them seeing you like this anyway. Better to wait till the swelling goes down.”

I felt her hand grip my shoulder.

“Are we alone in here?” I asked.

“Yes,” Jennifer said. “This is an attorney-client meeting. There’s a deputy outside the door but it’s closed. Also, the investigator’s out there, waiting to talk to you.”

“Okay, listen, don’t let them use this to delay the trial.”

“Well, we’ll see, Mickey. You need to be tested to make sure you—”

“No, I’m fine, I can tell. I’m already thinking about the case and I don’t want to delay it. We have them where we want them and I don’t want to give them time to catch up to us. That’s it.”

“Okay, I’ll object if they try.”

“Who was the guy?”

“What guy?”

“The one who choked me with the chain.”

“I don’t know, I only got his name. Mason Maddox. Lorna put it through the conflict-of-interest app, and there were no hits. You have no prior history with him. He was convicted last month of three murders—I haven’t gotten the case details yet. He was in court for a motions hearing.”

“Who’s his lawyer? The PD?”

“I don’t have that information yet.”

“Why’d he do it? Who put him up to it?”

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