The Law of Innocence

  The characters and events in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental and not intended by the author.

  Copyright © 2020 by Hieronymus, Inc.

  Cover design by Lauren Harms

  Cover photograph by Mike Ramirez / EyeEm / Getty Images

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  First ebook edition: November 2020

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  ISBN 978-0-316-49802-9

  E3-20201005-DA-NF-ORI

  Table of Contents

  Cover

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Chapter

  Part One: Twin Towers 1

  2

  3

  4

  5

  6

  7

  8

  9

  10

  11

  12

  13

  14

  Part Two: Follow the Honey 15

  16

  17

  18

  19

  20

  21

  22

  23

  Part Three: Echoes and Iron 24

  25

  26

  27

  28

  29

  30

  31

  32

  33

  34

  35

  36

  Part Four: Bleeding the Beast 37

  38

  39

  40

  41

  42

  43

  44

  45

  46

  47

  48

  49

  50

  51

  52

  53

  Epilogue

  Acknowledgments

  Discover More

  About the Author

  Also by Michael Connelly

  To Dr. Michael Hallisey, the members of the Hartford Hospital Book Club, and all of those on the front lines—including Kacey Rose Gajeski, R.N.—who have risked themselves for so many others

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  A murder case is like a tree. A tall tree. An oak tree. It has been carefully planted and cared for by the state. Watered and trimmed when needed, examined for disease and parasites of any kind. Its root system is constantly monitored as it flourishes underground and clings tightly to the earth. No money is spared in guarding the tree. Its caretakers are granted immense powers to protect and serve it.

  The tree’s branches eventually grow and spread wide in splendor. They provide deep shade for those who seek true justice.

  The branches spring from a thick and sturdy trunk. Direct evidence, circumstantial evidence, forensic science, motive, and opportunity. The tree must stand strong against the winds that challenge it.

  And that’s where I come in. I’m the man with the ax. My job is to cut the tree down to the ground and burn its wood to ashes.

  Part One

  Twin Towers

  1

  Monday, October 28

  It had been a good day for the defense. I had walked a man right out of the courtroom. I had turned a felony battery charge into a righteous case of self-defense in front of the jury. The so-called victim had a history of violence of his own that both prosecution and defense witnesses, including an ex-wife, were eager to describe on cross-examination. I delivered the knockout punch when I recalled him to the witness stand and led him down a path of questioning that put him over the edge. He lost his cool and threatened me, said he’d like to meet me out in the street, where it would be just him and me.

  “Would you then claim I attacked you, like you have with the defendant in this case?” I asked.

  The prosecutor objected and the judge sustained. But that was all it took. The judge knew it. The prosecutor knew it. Everybody in the courtroom knew it. I notched the NG after less than half an hour of jury deliberation. It wasn’t my quickest verdict ever, but it came close.

  Within the informal downtown defense bar, there is a sacred duty to celebrate a not-guilty verdict the way a golfer celebrates a hole in one at the clubhouse. That is, drinks all around. My celebration took place at the Redwood on Second Street, just a few blocks from the civic center, where there were no fewer than three courthouses to draw celebrants from. The Redwood was no country club but it was convenient. The party—meaning the open bar—started early and ended late, and when Moira, the heavily tattooed bartender who had been keeping the tab, handed me the damage, let’s just say I put more on my credit card than I would ever see from the client I had just set free.

  I had parked in a lot on Broadway. I got behind the wheel, took a left out of the lot and then another to put me back on Second Street. The traffic lights were with me and I followed the street into the tunnel that went under Bunker Hill. I was halfway through when I saw the reflection of blue lights on the tunnel’s exhaust-smoked green tiles. I checked the mirror and saw an LAPD cruiser behind me. I hit the blinker and pulled into the slow lane to let him pass. But the cruiser followed my lead into the same lane and came up six feet behind me. I got the picture then. I was being pulled over.

  I waited until I was out of the tunnel and took a right onto Figueroa. I pulled to a stop, killed the engine, and lowered the window. In the Lincoln’s side-view mirror a uniformed officer was walking up to my door. I saw no one else in the patrol car behind him. The officer approaching me was working alone.

  “Can I see your license, car registration, and proof of insurance, sir?” he asked.

  I turned to look at him. His name tag said Milton.

  “You sure can, Officer Milton,” I said. “But can I ask why you pulled me over? I know I wasn’t speeding and all the lights were green.”

  “License,” Milton said. “Registration. Insurance.”

  “Well, I guess you’ll eventually tell me. My license is in my pocket inside my coat. The other stuff is in the glove box. Which do you want me to go for first?”

  “Let’s start with your license.”

  “You got it.”

  As I pulled my wallet and worked the license out of one of its slots, I reviewed my situation and wondered if Milton had been watching the Redwood for lawyers exiting my party and possibly too tipsy to drive. There had been rumors about patrol cops doing that on nights when there was an NG celebration going on, and defense lawyers could be picked off for a variety of moving-vehicle violations.

  I handed Milton my li
cense and then went for the glove box. Soon enough the officer had all he had asked for.

  “Now are you going to tell me what this is about?” I asked. “I know I didn’t—”

  “Step out of the car, sir,” Milton said.

  “Oh, come on, man. Really?”

  “Please step out of the car.”

  “Whatever.”

  I threw the door open, aggressively forcing Milton to take a step back, and got out.

  “Just so you know,” I said. “I spent the last four hours in the Redwood but I didn’t have a drop of alcohol. I haven’t had a drink in more than five years.”

  “Good for you. Please step to the back of your vehicle.”

  “Make sure your car camera is on, because this is going to be embarrassing.”

  I walked past him to the back of the Lincoln and stepped into the lights of the patrol car behind it.

  “You want me to walk a line?” I said. “Count backward, touch my nose with my finger, what? I’m a lawyer. I know all the games and this one is bullshit.”

  Milton followed me to the back of the car. He was tall and lean, white, with a high and tight haircut. I saw the Metro Division badge on his shoulder and four chevrons on his long sleeves. I knew they gave them out for five years of service each. He was a veteran Metro bullethead all the way.

  “You see why I stopped you, sir?” he said. “Your car has no plate.”

  I looked down at the rear bumper of the Lincoln. There was no license plate.

  “Goddamn it,” I said. “Uh…this is some kind of a prank. We were celebrating—I won a case today and walked my client. The plate says IWALKEM and one of those guys must’ve thought it was a joke to steal the plate.”

  I tried to think about who had left the Redwood before I did, and who would have thought this was a funny thing to do. Daly, Mills, Bernardo…it could have been anyone.

  “Check the trunk,” Milton said. “Maybe it’s in there.”

  “No, they would need a key to put it in the trunk,” I said. “I’m going to make a call, see if I can—”

  “Sir, you’re not making a call until we’re finished here.”

  “That’s bullshit. I know the law. I’m not in custody—I can make a call.”

  I paused there to see if Milton had any further challenge. I noticed the camera on his chest.

  “My phone’s in the car,” I said.

  I started moving back to the open door.

  “Sir, stop right there,” Milton said from behind me.

  I turned around.

  “What?”

  He snapped on a flashlight and pointed the beam down at the ground behind the car.

  “Is that blood?” he asked.

  I stepped back and looked down at the cracked asphalt. The officer’s light was centered on a blotch of liquid beneath the bumper of my car. It was dark maroon at the center and almost translucent at its edges.

  “I don’t know,” I said. “But whatever it is, it was already there. I’m—”

  Just as I said it, we both saw another drop come down from the bumper and hit the asphalt.

  “Sir, open the trunk, please,” Milton demanded as he put the flashlight into a belt holster.

  A variety of questions cascaded through my mind, starting with what was in the trunk and ending with whether Milton had probable cause to open it if I refused.

  Another drop of what I now assumed to be bodily fluid of some sort hit the asphalt.

  “Write me the ticket for the plate, Officer Milton,” I said. “But I am not opening the trunk.”

  “Sir, then I am placing you under arrest,” Milton said. “Put your hands on the trunk.”

  “Arrest? For what? I’m not—”

  Milton moved in on me, grabbing me and spinning me toward my car. He threw all of his weight into me and doubled me over the trunk.

  “Hey! You can’t—”

  One at a time, my arms were roughly pulled behind my back and I was handcuffed. Milton then put his hand into the back collar of my shirt and jacket and yanked me up off the car.

  “You’re under arrest,” he said.

  “For what?” I said. “You can’t just—”

  “For your safety and mine I’m putting you into the back of the patrol car.”

  He grabbed my elbow to turn me again, and walked me to the rear passenger door of his car. He put his hand on top of my head as he pushed me into the plastic seat in the back. He then leaned across to buckle me in.

  “You know you can’t open the trunk,” I said. “You have no probable cause. You don’t know if that’s blood and you don’t know if it’s coming from the interior of the car. I could’ve driven through whatever it is.”

  Milton pulled back out of the car and looked down at me.

  “Exigent circumstances,” he said. “There might be someone in there who needs help.”

  He slammed the door. I watched him go back to my Lincoln and study the trunk lid for some sort of release mechanism. Finding none, he went to the open driver’s door and reached in to remove the keys.

  He used the key fob to pop the trunk, standing off to the side should someone come out of the trunk shooting. The lid went up and an interior light went on. Milton supplemented it with his own flashlight. He moved from left to right, stepping sideways and keeping his eyes and the beam on the contents of the trunk. From my angle in the back of the patrol car, I could not see into the trunk but could tell by the way Milton was maneuvering and bending down for a closer look that there was something there.

  Milton tilted his head to talk into the radio mic on his shoulder and then made a call. Probably for backup. Probably for a homicide unit. I didn’t have to see into the trunk to know that Milton had found a body.

  2

  Sunday, December 1

  Edgar Quesada sat next to me at a dayroom table as I read the last pages of the transcript from his trial. He had asked me to review his case files as a favor, hoping there was something I could see or do to help his situation. We were in the high-power module in the Twin Towers Correctional Facility in downtown Los Angeles. This was where they housed inmates on keep-away status as they waited for trial or, as in Quesada’s case, sentencing to state prison. It was the first Sunday evening in December and the jail was cold. Quesada wore white long johns under his blue jumpsuit, the sleeves all the way down to his wrists.

  Quesada was in familiar surroundings. He had been down this path before and had the tattoos to prove it. He was a third-generation White Fence gang member from Boyle Heights with lots of inked allegiance to the gang and the Mexican Mafia, which was the largest and most powerful gang in California’s jail and prison systems.

  According to the documents I had been reading, Quesada had been the driver of a car that carried two other members of White Fence as they fired automatic weapons through the plate-glass windows of a bodega on East First Street, where the owner had fallen two weeks behind on the gang tax that White Fence had been extorting from him for almost twenty-five years. The shooters had aimed high, the attack intended to be a warning. But a ricochet went low and hit the bodega owner’s granddaughter on the top of the head as she crouched behind the counter. Her name was Marisol Serrano. She died instantly, according to testimony I read from the deputy coroner.

  No witnesses to the crime identified the shooters. That would have been a fatal exercise in bravery. But a traffic cam caught the license plate on the getaway car. It was traced to a car stolen from the long-term parking garage at nearby Union Station. And cameras there caught a glimpse of the thief: Edgar Quesada. His trial lasted only four days and he was convicted of conspiracy to commit murder. His sentencing was in a week and he was looking at a minimum of fifteen years in prison with the likelihood of many more beyond that. All because he had been behind the wheel on a drive-by warning-turned-murder.

  “So?” Quesada said as I flipped the last page over.

  “Well, Edgar,” I said. “I think you’re kind of fucked.”

 
; “Man, don’t tell me that. There’s nothing? Nothing at all?”

  “There’s always things you can do. But they’re long shots, Edgar. I’d say you have more than enough here for an IAC motion but—”

  “What’s that?”

  “Ineffective assistance of counsel. Your lawyer sat on his hands the whole trial. He let objection after objection pass. He just let the prosecutor— Well, here, you see this page?”

  I moved back through the transcript to a page where I had folded a corner over.

  “Here the judge even says, ‘Are you going to object, Mr. Seguin, or do I have to keep doing it for you?’ That is not good trial work, Edgar, and you might have a shot at proving that, but here is the thing: at best you win the motion and get a do-over, but that doesn’t change the evidence. It’s still the same evidence and with the next jury you’ll go down again, even if you have a new lawyer who knows how to keep the prosecutor inside the lines.”

  Quesada shook his head. He was not my client, so I didn’t know all the details of his life but he was about thirty-five and looking at a lot of hard time.

  “How many convictions do you have?” I asked.

  “Two,” he said.

  “Felonies?”

  He nodded and I didn’t have to say anything else. My original assessment stood. He was fucked. He was probably going away forever. Unless…

  “You know why they got you here in high-power instead of the gang module, right?” I said. “Any day now they’re going to pull you out of here, put you in a room, and ask you the big question. Who was in the car with you that day?”

  I gestured to the thick transcript.

  “There’s nothing here that will help you,” I said. “The only thing you can do is deal the time down by giving up names.”

  I said the last part in a whisper. But Quesada didn’t respond as quietly.

  “That’s bullshit!” he yelled.

  I checked the mirrored window of the control room overhead even though I knew I could see nothing behind it. I then looked at Quesada and saw the veins in his neck start to pulse—even beneath the inked necklace of cemetery stones that circled it.