The Gods of Guilt(40)

“Yes, Mr. Moya has been away a long time and we are trying to improve his situation. Have you had a chance to look at the case the subpoena refers to?”

“Mr. Fulgoni, I barely have time to look at my own cases. In fact, I need to move some things around in order to clear the time you put on this subpoena. You should’ve left the time of the depo open-ended or at a time convenient to both parties.”

“I am sure we can accommodate you if Tuesday morning doesn’t work. And please call me Sly.”

“That’s fine, Sly. I think I can make it. But tell me why I am being deposed for Hector Moya. He was never my client and I had nothing to do with him.”

“But you did . . . Michael. In a way you are the one who put him in prison, and therefore you might also have the key to getting him out.”

This time I paused. The first part of Fulgoni’s statement was debatable, but whether true or not, it wasn’t the kind of thing I wanted a high-ranking cartel man thinking about me, even if he was safely held in a federal prison.

“I want to stop you right there,” I finally said. “Saying that I was the one who put your client in prison is not going to engender any help or cooperation from me. On what basis are you making such an outrageous and careless statement?”

“Oh, come on, Michael. It’s been eight years. We know the details. You made a deal that got your client Gloria Dayton into diversion and gave the feds Hector Moya tied up in a nice pink bow. Your client is now dead and that leaves you to tell us what happened.”

I drummed my fingers on the armrest as I tried to think of the best way to handle this.

“Tell me,” I finally said, “how do you know the things you think you know about Gloria Dayton and her case?”

“I’m not going to go there with you, Michael. That is internal and confidential. Privileged, as a matter of fact. But we do need to take your deposition as we prepare our case. I look forward to meeting you Tuesday.”

“That’s not going to work, Junior.”

“Excuse me?”

“No, you’re not excused. And maybe you’ll see me Tuesday and maybe you won’t. I can walk into any court in the CCB and get the judge to quash this in five minutes. You understand? So if you want me there on Tuesday, you’d better start talking. I don’t care if it’s internal, eyes only, confidential, or privileged, I’m not walking into any depo anywhere with just my hat in my hand. If you want me there, then you need to start telling me exactly why you want me there.”

That got his attention and he stammered in his reply.

“Uh, uh, I’ll tell you what. Let me get back to you on this, Michael. I promise to call you in a bit.”

“Yeah, you do that.”

I disconnected the call. I knew what Sly Jr. was going to do. He was going to get Sly Sr. on the phone up at Victorville and ask him how to handle me. It was pretty clear from the call that Junior was doing Senior’s bidding. This whole thing was probably cooked up in the rec yard up in Victorville: Sly Sr. going to Moya and suggesting he had a shot at a true habeas motion. From there, Sly Sr. probably handwrote the motion or the instructions to his son in the prison law library. The only question I had about it was how did they know Gloria Dayton had been the confidential informant on Moya?

I looked out the window after the call and saw that we were now making good progress and almost to the Cahuenga Pass. Earl was finding the holes and moving like a scatback through the blockers. That’s what he was good at. We were going to get to Roberts sooner than I had thought.

Roberts lived a few blocks from Ventura Boulevard. If you were looking for some sort of status attributed to address, then south of the boulevard was what was preferred in the Valley. After my divorce my ex-wife bought a condo one block south of the boulevard on Dickens, and the distinction had been important to her—and pricey. I, of course, was partially paying for the place, since it also housed our daughter.

Roberts was living a few blocks north of the designation line, in the stretch between Ventura Boulevard and the Ventura Freeway. It was sort of a second-place neighborhood with a mix of apartment buildings and single-family homes.

When we were a block away I saw that we were on a stretch of Vista Del Monte that was lined with homes instead of apartments. I had Earl stop the car so I could get into the front seat. I first had to unplug the printer and move the platform into the car’s trunk.

“Just in case she sees us arrive,” I said, once I was in and had closed the door.

“Okay,” Earl said. “What’s the plan, then?”

“Hopefully we park in front and look official in this car. You go with me to the door and I do the talking.”