The Gods of Guilt(31)
Aside from the La Cosse case, I kept several plates spinning as the calendar changed from one year to the next. Leonard Watts, the carjacker, got a deal he grudgingly agreed to in order to head off a retrial. Jennifer Aronson handled the negotiations, just as she did with Deirdre Ramsey, who took a plea deal and did not have to testify against her boyfriend in court.
I picked up a high-profile case in late December that was more of the chain saw variety. A former client and lifelong con artist named Sam Scales was popped by the LAPD on a scam that brought new meaning to the words heartless predator. Scales was accused of setting up a phony website and Facebook page in order to solicit donations to cover the burial costs of a child killed in a school massacre in Connecticut. People from far and wide gave liberally and Scales was said by the prosecution to have raked in close to fifty thousand that donors believed was going toward a murdered child’s funeral. The scam worked well until the parents of the dead child got wind of the effort and contacted authorities. Scales had used a variety of false digital fronts to safeguard his identity but eventually—as in all scams—he needed to move the money to a place where he could access it and put it in his pocket.
And that was the Bank of America branch on Sunset Boulevard in Hollywood. When he strolled in and asked for the money in cash, the bank teller saw the flag on the account and stalled while police were called. It was explained to Sam that the bank did not keep that much money in cash on hand because it was in a high-risk location, meaning the chances of a robbery were higher than at other locations. Scales was told that he could wait for the money to be special-ordered and put on the regular three p.m. armored truck delivery, or he could go to a downtown location where that kind of cash was more readily available. Scales, a con artist who didn’t know a con when it was directed at him, elected to special-order the money and return to pick it up. When he came back at three, he was met by two detectives with the LAPD Commercial Crimes Division. The same two detectives who arrested him for the last case I defended him on—a Japanese tsunami aid rip-off.
Everybody wanted a piece of Scales this time—the FBI, the Connecticut State Police, even the Royal Canadian Mounted Police, who jumped in on the case because several of the victims who had given money were from across the border. But the LAPD made the arrest, and that meant the Los Angeles County District Attorney’s Office had the first shot at him. Scales called me as he had in the past and I took on the cause of a man so vilified in the media for his alleged crime that he had to be placed in solitary at Men’s Central for fear he would be harmed by other prisoners.
What made matters worse for Scales was that the outrage was so great that the district attorney himself, Damon Kennedy, the man who had soundly defeated me in the prior year’s election, had announced that he would personally prosecute Scales to the full extent of the law. This of course came after I had signed on as defense counsel, and now the stage was set for Kennedy to once again trounce me on the public stage. I had made inquiries about a disposition—the DA had Scales dead to rights on this one—but Kennedy was having none of that. He knew he had a slam-dunk case and there was no need to deal. He would milk the trial for every last video, print, and digital drop of attention he could wring out of it. No doubt, Sam Scales was going to go down for the full count this time.
The Scales case did not help me personally either. L.A. Weekly ran a cover story on “The Most Hated Man in America,” and the report provided a trip down memory lane of the many cons Scales had been accused of over the past two decades. My name came up often in these vignettes as his longtime defense attorney, and the overall story cast me as an official apologist for my client. The issue landed a week before Christmas and it made for an icy reception from my daughter, who once again believed her father had publicly humiliated her. All parties had previously agreed that I would be allowed to visit on Christmas morning with gifts for both daughter and former wife. But it didn’t go so well. What I had hoped would be the start of a winter thaw in both relationships turned into an ice storm. I ate a TV dinner at home alone that night.
It was now the first week of April, and I was appearing on behalf of Andre La Cosse before the Honorable Nancy Leggoe in Department 120 of the downtown Criminal Courts Building. We were six weeks out from trial on the case and Leggoe was taking testimony in regard to the motion to suppress that I had filed shortly after the preliminary hearing in which La Cosse was held to answer.
La Cosse sat beside me at the defense table. He had been in jail going on five months now and the pallor of his skin was just one indication of the deterioration within. Some people can handle a stint behind bars. Andre wasn’t one of them. As he told me often when we communicated, he was losing his mind in captivity.