The Gods of Guilt(9)

The bottom line is that Gallagher was out drinking and driving because of my so-called skills as a defense lawyer, and no matter how Legal Siegel tried to soothe my conscience with the old “you-were-just-doing-your-job” refrain, I knew in the dark shadows of my soul that the verdict was guilty. Guilty in the eyes of my daughter, guilty in my own eyes as well.

“You still there, Mick?”

I came out of the dark reverie, realizing I was still on the phone with Cisco.

“Yeah. Do you know who’s working the case?”

“The press release names Detective Mark Whitten of West Bureau as the lead. His partner isn’t listed.”

I didn’t know Whitten and had never come up against him on a case, as far as I could remember.

“Okay. Anything else?”

“That’s all I have at the moment but I’m working it.”

Cisco’s info had dampened my excitement. But I wasn’t going to jettison the case just yet. Guilty conscience aside, a paycheck was a paycheck. I needed the dough to keep Michael Haller & Associates solvent.

“I’ll call you after I meet the man, which is right now.”

A detention deputy was directing me into one of the attorney-client booths. I got up and headed in.

Andre La Cosse was already in a chair on the other side of a table with a three-foot-high plexiglass divider cutting it in half. Most of the clients I visit in Men’s Central adopt a slouch and a laid-back, cavalier attitude about being in jail. It’s a protective measure. If you act unconcerned about being locked into a steel building with twelve hundred other violent criminals, then maybe they’ll leave you alone. On the other hand, if you show fear, then the predators will see it and exploit it. They’ll come for you.

But La Cosse was different. First of all, he was smaller than I had expected. He was slightly built and looked to me like he had never once picked up a set of barbells. He was in a baggy orange jail jumper but seemed to carry himself with a pride that belied his circumstances. He didn’t exactly show fear, but he wasn’t showing the exaggerated nonchalance I had seen so many times before in these places. He sat upright on the edge of his chair and his eyes tracked me like lasers as I came into the small space. There was something formal about the way he held himself. His hair was carefully feathered at the sides and it looked like he might have been wearing eyeliner.

“Andre?” I said as I sat down. “I’m Michael Haller. You called my office about handling your case.”

“Yes, I did. I shouldn’t be here. Somebody killed her after I was there but nobody will believe me.”

“Slow down a second and let me get set up here.”

I took a legal pad out of my briefcase and the pen from my shirt pocket.

“Before we talk about your case, let me ask a couple of things first.”

“Please.”

“And let me say from the beginning that you can never lie to me, Andre. You understand that? If you lie, I fly—that’s my rule. I can’t be working for you if we don’t have a relationship where I can believe that everything you tell me is the god’s honest truth.”

“Yes, that won’t be a problem. The truth is the only thing I’ve got on my side right now.”

I went down a list of the basics, gathering a quick bio for the files. La Cosse was thirty-two, unmarried, and living in a condo in West Hollywood. He had no local relatives, the nearest being his parents in Lincoln, Nebraska. He said he had no criminal record in California, Nebraska, or anywhere else and had never had so much as a speeding ticket. He gave me phone numbers for his parents and his cell phone and landline—these would be used to track him down in the event he were to get out of jail and not live up to our fee arrangement. Once I had the basics I looked up from my legal pad.

“What do you do for a living, Andre?”

“I work from home. I’m a programmer. I build and manage websites.”

“How did you know the victim in this case, Giselle Dallinger?”

“I ran all her social media. Her websites, Facebook, e-mail, all of it.”

“So you’re sort of a digital pimp?”

La Cosse’s neck immediately grew scarlet.

“Absolutely not! I am a businessman and she is—was—a businesswoman. And I did not kill her, but nobody around here will believe me.”

I made a calming gesture with my free hand.

“Let’s cool it down a little bit. I’m on your side, remember?”

“Doesn’t seem like it when you ask a question like that.”

“Are you gay, Andre?”

“What does that matter?”

“Maybe nothing but maybe it will mean a lot when the prosecutor starts talking about a motive. Are you?”