The Fifth Witness - Michael Connelly [57]
The letter from Bondurant to Opparizio had been hidden in the haystack of documents Freeman had turned over. Maybe she had found it only recently herself and realized what I could do with it, how I could build a defense case around it. It happens sometimes. A prosecutor gets a case with what seems like overwhelming evidence, and hubris sets in. You go with what you’ve got and other potential evidence goes undiscovered until late. Sometimes too late.
I became convinced. It had to be the letter. A day ago she was running scared because of the letter. Now she was confident. Why? The only difference between yesterday and today was the motion to quash the Opparizio subpoena. All at once I understood her strategy. The prosecution would support the dismissal of the subpoena. If Opparizio didn’t testify I might not be able to get the letter before the jury.
If I had it right, then there could be a severe setback for the defense at the hearing on the motion. I now knew I had to be prepared to fight as though my case depended on it. Because it did.
I decided to put the phone in my pocket. No more calls. It was Friday evening. I would put the case aside and take it all up again in the morning. Everything could wait until then.
“Rojas, put on some music. It’s the weekend, man!”
Rojas hit the button on the dash to play the CD. I had forgotten what I had in there but soon identified the song as Ry Cooder singing “Teardrops Will Fall,” a cover of the 1960s classic on his anthology disc. It sounded good and it sounded right. A song about love lost and being left alone.
The trial would start in less than three weeks. Whether or not we figured out what Freeman was hiding, the defense team was locked and loaded and ready to go. We still had some outstanding subpoenas to serve but otherwise we were fit for battle and I was growing more confident every day.
The following Monday I would hole up in my office and start choreographing the defense case. The hypothesis of innocence would be carefully revealed piece by piece and witness by witness until it all came together in a crushing wave of reasonable doubt.
But I still had a weekend to fill before that and I wanted to put as much distance as I could between me and Lisa Trammel and everything else. Cooder was now on to “Poor Man’s Shangri-La,” the one about the UFOs and space vatos in Chávez Ravine before they took it away from the people and put up Dodger Stadium.
What’s that sound, what’s that light?
Streaking down through the night
I told Rojas to turn it up. I lowered the back windows and let the wind and music blow through my hair and ears.
UFO got a radio
Little Julian singing soft and low
Los Angeles down below
DJ says, we gotta go
To El Monte, to El Monte, pa El Monte
Na, na, na, na, na
Livin’ in a poor man’s Shangri-La
I closed my eyes as we cruised.
Seventeen
Rojas dropped me at the steps of my home and I slowly made my way up while he put the Lincoln in the garage. His own car was parked on the street. He’d take it home and come back Monday, the usual routine.
Before opening the door I stepped to the far end of the deck and looked out at the city. The sun still had a couple hours of work ahead, then would set on another week. From up here the city had a certain sound that was as identifiable as a train whistle. The low hiss of a million dreams in competition.
“You all right?”
I turned around. It was Rojas at the top of the steps.
“Yeah, fine. What’s the matter?”
“I don’t know. I saw you standing up here and thought maybe something was wrong, like you were locked out or something.”
“No, I was just checking out the city.”
I went over to the door, pulling out my house key.
“Have a good weekend, Rojas.”
“You too, Boss.”
“You know, you should probably stop calling me Boss.”
“Okay, Boss.”
“Whatever.”
I turned the lock and pushed the door open. I was immediately greeted with a sharp and multivoiced cheer of “Surprise!”
I once got shot in the gut after opening the same door. This surprise was a