“Because Hector Moya is a cartel guy, and I thought, you know, that—”
“I think I’m going to stop the witness there,” Leggoe said. “Now we are getting into an area beyond the witness’s expertise and knowledge. Ask a different question, Mr. Haller.”
But I had no more questions. For all his unpolished delivery, Valenzuela had been an A-plus witness, and I felt good about how we had come out of the gate. I turned the floor over to Forsythe for cross-examination but he was wise enough to pass. There wasn’t much he could get out of questioning Valenzuela without one of them repeating things that supported the defense theory.
“I have no questions, Your Honor,” he said.
The judge excused Valenzuela and he made his way out of the courtroom. Leggoe told me to call my next witness.
“Your Honor,” I said. “This might be a good time to break for lunch.”
“Really, Mr. Haller,” Leggoe said. “Why is that? The clock says it is twenty minutes to twelve.”
“Uh, Judge, my next witness is not here yet, and if I could have the lunch hour, I am sure I can have him here to start the afternoon session.”
“Very well. The jury is excused until one o’clock.”
I moved back toward the defense table while the jury filed out of the courtroom. Forsythe gave me a look and shook his head as I moved by him.
“You don’t know what you just did, do you?” he whispered.
“What are you talking about?” I asked.
He didn’t answer and I kept moving. At the defense table I started gathering my legal pads and documents together. I knew better than to leave anything on the table during court breaks. The moment the door closed on the last juror, the judge’s voice boomed through the courtroom.
“Mr. Haller.”
I looked up.
“Yes, Your Honor.”
“Mr. Haller, how would you like to join your client for lunch in lockup?”
I smiled, still not aware of any trespass that I had committed.
“Well, I wouldn’t mind the company, but cheese sandwiches aren’t on my list of culinary favorites, Your—”
“Then let me put you on notice, Mr. Haller. You never suggest a lunch break or any break in front of my jury, do you understand that?”
“I do now, Judge.”
“This is my courtroom, Mr. Haller, not yours. And I decide when we break for lunch and when we don’t.”
“Yes, Your Honor. I apologize and it won’t happen again.”
“If it does, there will be consequences.”
The judge then left the bench in a huff, her black robes flowing behind her. I gathered myself and looked over at Forsythe, who had a sneaky smile on his face. He’d obviously worked in Leggoe’s courtroom before and knew her personal rules of decorum. Big deal, I thought. At least she waited until the jury was gone before she brought out the hammer.
When I got out of the courtroom and into the hallway, I found Cisco pacing near the elevators. He was holding his cell phone to his ear but not talking.
“Where the fuck is Fulgoni?” I demanded.
“I don’t know,” Cisco said. “He said he’d be here. I’m on hold with his office.”
“He’s got one hour. He’d better be here.”
31
Kendall had left before the lunch break to head up to the Valley and her shift at Flex. Lorna and I walked down Spring and then over to Main to a place called Pete’s Café. Along the way I occasionally looked back over my shoulder to make sure we had security with us. Moya’s men were always there.
We’d chosen Pete’s because it was good and fast and it served an excellent BLT, which for some reason I was craving. The only issue I ever had with eating at Pete’s was that it was always full of cops, and this time was no different. Just a couple blocks from the Police Administration Building, the restaurant was a favorite with command staff suits and detectives from the elite Robbery-Homicide Division squads. I exchanged awkward nods and stares with a few guys I recognized from prior trials and cases. We got a table that was cut off from the view of most of the restaurant by a wide support column, and that was fine with me. I was beginning to feel like I had wandered into an enemy encampment when all I wanted was a BLT on whole wheat toast.
Lorna was smart enough to ask me if I wanted her to be quiet while I thought about the case and the day’s after-lunch session. But I told her there was no sense in my strategizing a plan for the afternoon until I knew whether Sly Jr. was going to be in court as he was supposed to be. So after ordering we spent the time studying my calendar and looking for billable hours. The firm was running out of money. Before it was known that there would be no more gold bars coming from Andre La Cosse, I had spent liberally on P&I—trial preparation and investigation. More was going out than was coming in, and that was a problem.