The Brass Verdict Page 9

  All the while, Elliot’s personal wealth grew commensurately. Though he had come west twenty-five years before as the rich scion of a Florida phosphate family, that money was nothing like the riches provided by Hollywood. Like many on those power 100 lists, Elliot traded in his wife for a newer model and together they started accumulating houses. First in the canyons, then down in the Beverly Hills flats, and then on out to Malibu and up to Santa Barbara. According to the information in the files I had, Walter Elliot and his wife owned seven different homes and two ranches in or around Los Angeles. Never mind how often they used each place. Real estate was a way of keeping score in Hollywood.

  All those properties and top 100 lists came in handy when Elliot was charged with double murder. The studio boss flexed his political and financial muscles and pulled off something rarely accomplished in a murder case. He got bail. With the prosecution objecting all the way, bail was set at $20 million and Elliot quickly ponied it up in real estate. He’d been out of jail and awaiting trial ever since—his brief flirtation with bail revocation the week before notwithstanding.

  One of the properties Elliot put up as collateral for bail was the house where the murders took place. It was a waterfront weekender on a secluded cove. On the bail escrow its value was listed at $6 million. It was there that thirty-nine-year-old Mitzi Elliot was murdered along with her lover in a twelve-hundred-square-foot bedroom with a glass wall that looked out on the big blue Pacific.

  The discovery file was replete with forensic reports and color copies of the crime scene photographs. The death room was completely white—walls, carpet, furniture and bedding. Two naked bodies were sprawled on the bed and floor. Mitzi Elliot and Johan Rilz. The scene was red on white. Two large bullet holes in the man’s chest. Two in the woman’s chest and one in her forehead. He by the bedroom door. She on the bed. Red on white. It was not a clean scene. The wounds were large. Though the murder weapon was missing, an accompanying report said that slugs had been identified through ballistic markings as coming from a Smith & Wesson model 29, a .44 magnum revolver. Fired at close quarters, it was overkill.

  Walter Elliot had been suspicious about his wife. She had announced her intentions to divorce him and he believed there was another man involved. He told the sheriff’s homicide investigators that he had gone to the Malibu beach house because his wife had told him she was going to meet with the interior designer. Elliot thought that was a lie and timed his approach so that he would be able to confront her with a paramour. He loved her and wanted her back. He was willing to fight for her. He had gone to confront, he repeated, not to kill. He didn’t own a .44 magnum, he told them. He didn’t own any guns.

  According to the statement he gave investigators, when Elliot got to Malibu he found his wife and her lover naked and already dead. It turned out that the lover was in fact the interior designer, Johan Rilz, a German national Elliot had always thought was gay.

  Elliot left the house and got back in his car. He started to drive away but then thought better of it. He decided to do the right thing. He turned around and pulled back into the driveway. He called 911 and waited out front for the deputies to arrive.

  The chronology and details of how the investigation proceeded from that point would be important in mounting a defense. According to the reports in the file, Elliot gave investigators an initial account of his discovery of the two bodies. He was then transported by two detectives to the Malibu substation so he would be out of the way while the investigation of the crime scene proceeded. He was not under arrest at this time. He was placed in an unlocked interview room where he waited three long hours for the two lead detectives to finally clear the crime scene and come to the substation. A videotaped interview was then conducted but, according to the transcript I reviewed, quickly crossed the line into interrogation. At this point Elliot was finally advised of his rights and asked if he wanted to continue to answer questions. Elliot wisely chose to stop talking and to ask for an attorney. It was a decision made better late than never but Elliot would have been better off if he had never said word one to the investigators. He should’ve just taken the nickel and kept his mouth shut.

  While investigators had been working the crime scene and Elliot was cooling his heels in the substation interview room, a homicide investigator working in the sheriff’s headquarters in Whittier drew up several search warrants that were faxed to a superior court judge and signed. These allowed investigators to search throughout the beach house and Elliot’s car and permitted them to conduct a gunshot residue test on Elliot’s hands and clothes to determine if there were gas nitrates and microscopic particles of burned gunpowder on them. After Elliot refused further cooperation, his hands were bagged in plastic at the substation and he was transported to Sheriff’s Headquarters, where a criminalist conducted the GSR test in the crime lab. This consisted of wiping chemically treated disks on Elliot’s hands and clothing. When the disks were processed by a lab technician, those that had been wiped on his hands and sleeves tested positive for high levels of gunshot residue.

  At that point Elliot was formally arrested on suspicion of murder. With his one phone call he contacted his personal lawyer, who in turn called in Jerry Vincent, whom he had attended law school with. Elliot was eventually transported to the county jail and booked on two counts of murder. The sheriff’s investigators then called the department’s media office and suggested that a press conference should be set up. They had just bagged a big one.

  I closed the file as Cisco stopped the Lincoln in front of Archway Studios. There were a number of picketers walking the sidewalk. They were writers on strike, holding up red-and-white signs that said WE WANT A FAIR SHARE! AND WRITERS UNITED! Some signs showed a fist holding a pen. Another said YOUR FAVORITE LINE? A WRITER WROTE IT. Anchored on the sidewalk was a large blow-up figure of a pig smoking a cigar with the word PRODUCER branded on its rear end. The pig and most of the signs were well-worn clichés and I would have thought that with the protesters being writers, they would have come up with something better. But maybe that kind of creativity happened only when they were getting paid.

  I had ridden in the backseat for the sake of appearances on this first stop. I was hoping that Elliot might catch a glimpse of me through his office window and take me for an attorney of great means and skill. But the writers saw a Lincoln with a rider in the back and thought I was a producer. As we turned into the studio, they descended on the car with their signs and started chanting, “Greedy Bastard! Greedy Bastard!” Cisco gunned it and plowed through, a few of the hapless scribes dodging the fenders.

  “Careful!” I barked. “All I need is to run over an out-of-work writer.”

  “Don’t worry,” Cisco replied calmly. “They always scatter.”

  “Not this time.”

  When he got up to the guardhouse, Cisco pulled forward enough that my window was even with the door. I checked to make sure none of the writers had followed us onto studio property and then lowered the glass so I could speak to the man who stepped out. His uniform was a beige color with a dark brown tie and matching epaulets. It looked ridiculous.

  “Can I help you?”

  “I’m Walter Elliot’s attorney. I don’t have an appointment but I need to see him right away.”

  “Can I see your driver’s license?”

  I got it out and handed it through the window.

  “I am handling this for Jerry Vincent. That’s the name Mr. Elliot’s secretary will recognize.”

  The guard went into the booth and slid the door closed. I didn’t know if this was to keep the air-conditioning from escaping or to prevent me from hearing what was said when he picked up the phone. Whatever the reason, he soon slid the door back open and extended the phone to me, his hand covering the mouthpiece.

  “Mrs. Albrecht is Mr. Elliot’s executive assistant. She wants to speak to you.”

  I took the phone.

  “Hello?”

  “Mr. Haller, is it? What is this all about? Mr.
Elliot has dealt exclusively with Mr. Vincent on this matter and there is no appointment on his calendar.”

  This matter. It was a strange way of referring to double charges of murder.

  “Mrs. Albrecht, I’d rather not talk about this at the front gate. As you can imagine, it’s quite a delicate ‘matter,’ to use your word. Can I come to the office and see Mr. Elliot?”

  I turned in my seat and looked out the back window. There were two cars in the guardhouse queue behind my Lincoln. They must not have been producers. The writers had let them through unmolested.

  “I’m afraid that’s not good enough, Mr. Haller. Can I place you on hold while I call Mr. Vincent?”

  “You won’t get through to him.”

  “He’ll take a call from Mr. Elliot, I am sure.”

  “I am sure he won’t, Mrs. Albrecht. Jerry Vincent’s dead. That’s why I’m here.”

  I looked at Cisco’s reflection in the rearview mirror and shrugged as though to say I had no choice but to hit her with the news. The plan had been to finesse my way through the arch and then be the one to personally tell Elliot his lawyer was dead.

  “Excuse me, Mr. Haller. Did you say Mr. Vincent is… dead?”

  “That’s what I said. And I’m his court-appointed replacement. Can I come in now?”

  “Yes, of course.”

  I handed the phone back and soon the gate opened.

  Thirteen

  We were assigned to a prime parking space in the executive lot. I told Cisco to wait in the car and went in alone, carrying the two thick files Vincent had put together on the case. One contained discovery materials turned over so far by the prosecution, including the important investigative documents and interview transcripts, and the other contained documents and other work product generated by Vincent during the five months he had handled the case. Between the two files I was able to get a good handle on what the prosecution had and didn’t have, and the direction in which the prosecutor wanted to take the trial. There was still work to be done and pieces were missing from the defense’s case and strategy. Perhaps those pieces had been carried in Jerry Vincent’s head, or in his laptop or on the legal pad in his portfolio, but unless the cops arrested a suspect and recovered the stolen property, whatever was there would be of no help to me.

  I followed a sidewalk across a beautifully manicured lawn on the way to Elliot’s office. My plan for the meeting was threefold. The first order of business was to secure Elliot as a client. That done, I would ask his approval in delaying the trial to give me time to get up to speed and prepare for it. The last part of the plan would be to see if Elliot had any of the pieces missing from the defense case. Parts two and three obviously didn’t matter if I was unsuccessful with part one.

  Walter Elliot’s office was in Bungalow One on the far reaches of the Archway lot. “Bungalows” sounded small but they were big in Hollywood. A sign of status. It was like having your own private home on the lot. And as in any private home, activities inside could be kept secret.

  A Spanish-tiled entranceway led to a step-down living room with a fireplace blowing gas flames on one wall and a mahogany wood bar set up in an opposite corner. I stepped into the middle of the room and looked around and waited. I looked at the painting over the fireplace. It depicted an armored knight on a white steed. The knight had reached up and flipped open the visor on his helmet and his eyes stared out intently. I took a few steps further into the room and realized the eyes had been painted so that they stared at the viewer of the painting from any angle in the room. They followed me.

  “Mr. Haller?”

  I turned as I recognized the voice from the guardhouse phone. Elliot’s gatekeeper, Mrs. Albrecht, had stepped into the room from some unseen entrance. Elegance was the word that came to mind. She was an aging beauty who appeared to take the process in stride. Gray streaked through her un-dyed hair and tiny wrinkles were working their way toward her eyes and mouth, seemingly unchecked by injection or incision. Mrs. Albrecht looked like a woman who liked her own skin. In my experience, this was a rare thing in Hollywood.

  “Mr. Elliot will see you now.”

  I followed her around a corner and down a short hallway to a reception office. She passed an empty desk—hers, I assumed—and pushed open a large door to Walter Elliot’s office.

  Elliot was an overly tanned man with more gray hair sprouting from his open shirt collar than from the top of his head. He sat behind a large glass worktable. No drawers beneath it and no computer on top of it, though paperwork and scripts were spread across it. It didn’t matter that he was facing two counts of murder. He was staying busy. He was working and running Archway the way he always did. Maybe it was on the advice of some Hollywood self-help guru but it wasn’t an unusual behavior or philosophy for the accused. Act like you are innocent and you will be perceived as innocent. Finally, you will become innocent.

  There was a sitting area to the right but he chose to remain behind the worktable. He had dark, piercing eyes that seemed familiar and then I realized I had just been looking at them—the knight on the steed out in the living room was Elliot.

  “Mr. Elliot, this is Mr. Haller,” Mrs. Albrecht said.

  She signaled me to the chair across the table from Elliot. After I sat down Elliot made a dismissive gesture without looking at Mrs. Albrecht and she left the room without another word. Over the years I had represented and been in the company of a couple dozen killers. The one rule is that there are no rules. They come in all sizes and shapes, rich and poor, humble and arrogant, regretful and cold to the bone. The percentages told me that it was most likely Elliot was a killer. That he had calmly dispatched his wife and her lover and arrogantly thought he could and would get away with it. But there was nothing about him on first meeting that told me one way or the other for sure. And that’s the way it always was.

  “What happened to my lawyer?” he asked.

  “Well, for a detailed explanation I would have to refer you to the police. The shorthand is that somebody killed him last night in his car.”

  “And where does that leave me? I’m on trial for my life in a week!”

  That was a slight exaggeration. Jury selection was scheduled in nine days and the DA’s office had not announced that it would seek the death penalty. But it didn’t hurt that he was thinking in such terms.

  “That’s why I’m here, Mr. Elliot. At the moment you are left with me.”

  “And who are you? I’ve never heard of you.”

  “You haven’t heard of me because I make it a practice not to be heard of. Celebrity lawyers bring too much attention to their clients. They feed their own celebrity by offering up their clients. I don’t operate that way.”

  He pursed his lips and nodded. I could tell I had just scored a point.

  “And you’re taking over Vincent’s practice?” he asked.

  “Let me explain it, Mr. Elliot. Jerry Vincent had a one-man shop. Just like I do. On occasion one of us would need help with a case or need another attorney to fill in here and there. We filled that role for each other. If you look at the contract of representation you signed with him, you will find my name in a paragraph with language that allowed Jerry to discuss your case with me and to include me within the bonds of the attorney-client relationship. In other words, Jerry trusted me with his cases. And now that he is gone, I am prepared to carry on in his stead. Earlier today the chief judge of the superior court issued an order placing me in custody of Jerry’s cases. Of course, you ultimately get to choose who represents you at trial. I am very familiar with your case and prepared to continue your legal representation without so much as a hiccup. But, as I said, you must make the choice. I’m only here to tell you your options.”

  Elliot shook his head.

  “I really can’t believe this. We were set for trial next week and I’m not pushing it back. I’ve been waiting five months to clear my name! Do you have any idea what it is like for an innocent man to have to wait and wait and wait for just
ice? To read all the innuendo and bullshit in the media? To have a prosecutor with his nose up my ass, waiting for me to make the move that gets my bail pulled? Look at this!”

  He stretched out a leg and pulled his left pant leg up to reveal the GPS monitor Judge Holder had ordered him to wear.

  “I want this over!”

  I nodded in a consoling manner and knew that if I told him I wanted to delay his case, I would be looking at a quick dismissal from consideration. I decided I would bring that up in a strategy session after I closed the deal—if I closed the deal.

  “I’ve dealt with many clients wrongly accused,” I lied. “The wait for justice can be almost intolerable. But it also makes the vindication all the more meaningful.”

  Elliot didn’t respond and I didn’t let the silence last long.

  “I spent most of the afternoon reviewing the files and evidence in your case. I’m confident you won’t have to delay the trial, Mr. Elliot. I would be more than prepared to proceed. Another attorney, maybe not. But I would be ready.”

  There it was, my best pitch to him, most of it lies and exaggerations. But I didn’t stop there.

  “I’ve studied the trial strategy Mr. Vincent outlined. I wouldn’t change it but I believe I can improve on it. And I’d be ready to go next week if need be. I think a delay can always be useful, but it won’t be necessary.”

  Elliot nodded and rubbed a finger across his mouth.

  “I would have to think about this,” he said. “I need to talk to some people and have you checked out. Just like I had Vincent checked out before I went with him.”

  I decided to gamble and to try to force Elliot into a quick decision. I didn’t want him checking me out and possibly discovering I had disappeared for a year. That would raise too many questions.

  “It’s a good idea,” I said. “Take your time but don’t take too much time. The longer you wait to decide, the greater the chance that the judge will find it necessary to push the trial back. I know you don’t want that, but in the absence of Mr. Vincent or any attorney of record, the judge is probably already getting nervous and considering it. If you choose me, I will try to get before the judge as soon as possible and tell him we’re still good to go.”