“Mr. Foster, I’m not here because I want you to be my friend. And you don’t need me to be yours. But I’ll tell you this. If you are innocent of this crime, then you don’t want anybody else but me on it. Because if you’re innocent, that means there is somebody else out there, not in jail, who did this. And I’m going to find him.”
Bosch opened the file and slid one of the crime scene photos across the table. It was a close-up color shot of Alexandra Parks’s brutalized and unrecognizable face. The reports in the murder book said that when her husband found her, a pillow had been placed over her face. In the psychological profile of the crime scene contained in the murder book, it was suggested that the killer did this because he was ashamed of what he had done and was covering it up. If that was the case, Bosch was expecting a reaction from Foster when he saw the horror of the crime.
He got one. Foster glanced down at the photo and then jerked his head back and looked up at the ceiling.
“Oh my lord! Oh my lord!”
Bosch watched him closely, studying his reaction. He believed that in the next few seconds he would decide whether Foster had murdered Alexandra Parks. He was a one-man jury reading the nuances of facial expression before rendering a verdict.
“Take it away,” Foster said.
“No, I want you to look at it,” Bosch said.
“I can’t.”
Without bringing his eyes down from the ceiling Foster pointed at the photo on the table.
“I can’t believe this. They say I did that, that I would do that to a woman’s face.”
“That’s right.”
“My mother will be at the trial and they’ll show that?”
“Probably. Unless the judge says it’s too prejudicial — good chance of that, I’d say.”
Foster made some kind of keening sound from the back of his throat. A wounded animal sound.
“Look at me, Da’Quan,” Bosch said. “Look at me.”
Foster slowly brought his head and gaze down and looked at Bosch, maintaining an eye-line focus that did not include the photo on the table. Bosch read pain and sympathy in his eyes. He had sat across the table from many murderers in his time as a detective. Most of them, especially the psychopaths, were very good liars. But in the end it was always the eyes that betrayed them. Psychopaths are cold. They can talk sympathy but they can’t show it in their eyes. Bosch always looked at their eyes.
“Did you do this, Da’Quan?” Bosch asked.
“I didn’t,” Foster said.
What Bosch believed he saw in Da’Quan Foster’s eyes now was the truth. He reached over and flipped the photograph over so it was no longer a threat.
“Okay, you can relax about it now,” Bosch said.
Foster’s shoulders were slumped and he looked wrung out. It was dawning on him, possibly for the first time, that he stood accused of the worst kind of crime.
“I think I believe you, Da’Quan. That’s a good thing. What is bad is that your DNA was found in the victim and we need to explain that.”
“It wadn’t mine.”
“That’s just a denial and that doesn’t work as an explanation. The science is against you so far. The DNA makes this a slam-dunk case for the prosecution, Da’Quan. You’re a dead man walking unless we can explain it.”
“I can’t explain it. I know it wasn’t from me. That’s it.”
“Then how did it get there, Da’Quan?”
“I don’t know! It’s like planted evidence.”
“Planted by who?”
“I don’t know!”
“The cops?”
“Somebody.”
“Were you there that night? In this lady’s house?”
“Hell, no!”
“Then where were you?”
“At the studio. I was painting.”
“No, you weren’t. That’s bullshit. The Sheriff’s Department has a witness. He says he went by the studio. You weren’t there.”
“Yes, I was.”
“Their witness is going to get on the stand at your trial and testify that he went to the studio to see you but you weren’t there. You add that to the DNA and you’re done. All over. You understand?”
Bosch pointed to the overturned photo.
“A crime like that, no judge and no jury’s going to have a second thought about giving you the death penalty. You’ll go the way Tookie went.”
He let that sink in for a moment before continuing in a softer voice.
“You want me to help you, Da’Quan? I need to know everything. Good and bad. You can lie to your lawyer but you can’t lie to me. I can read it. So one more time, where were you? You don’t tell me and I’m out of here. What’s it going to be?”
Foster lowered his eyes to the table. Bosch waited him out. He could tell Foster was about to break and tell the story.
“All right,” he said. “This is the deal. I was up there in Hollywood. And I was with someone, not my wife.”
“Okay,” Bosch said. “Who is she?”
“Not a she,” Foster said.
12
Haller missed the entire session with Foster. He was either a celebrity lawyer or a notorious lawyer, depending on how you looked at it. He had received the ultimate imprimatur of L.A. acceptance — a movie about one of his cases starring no less than Matthew McConaughey. He had also run for district attorney in the last election cycle and lost the race because of a scandal that erupted when a client he had previously cleared of a DUI charge killed two people and himself while driving drunk. So either way he was news, and the officers at city jail helpfully stalled his release until the media could be fully notified of his arrest, his mug shot could be uploaded to the Internet, and an assemblage of reporters, photographers, and videographers could muster outside the jail’s release door to document his walk of shame.
Bosch accompanied Jennifer Aronson, acting as Haller’s lawyer, into the jail to warn him about what awaited outside. She had a plan that involved Bosch pulling up to the door in his Cherokee and allowing Haller to step out quickly and jump in the back. Bosch would then speed away. But Haller said he wanted no part in such a cowardly exit. Once he collected his personal property, he pulled the tie out of his suit pocket and clipped it on. He smoothed it down on his chest and then stepped through the release door with his chin held high. He walked directly to the media cluster, waited a beat until all lenses were focused and microphones positioned, and then started speaking.
“I just want to say that I have been the target of law enforcement intimidation practices,” he began. “But I am not intimidated. I was set up and taken down. I was not driving while intoxicated and there is no evidence that I was. I’ll be fighting these charges and will ultimately be proven innocent. They will not deter me from the work I do defending the underdogs of our society. Thank you.”
There was a clamor of voices as questions were hurled at him. Bosch heard one woman’s deep voice drown out the others.
“Why are they trying to intimidate you?”
“I don’t know yet,” Haller said. “I have a number of cases in which I plan to put the police on trial in defense of my client. They know that. This could have come from any quarter, as far as I’m concerned.”
The same woman yelled a follow-up.
“Could it have anything to do with the Lexi Parks case?”
“I don’t know,” Haller said. “I just know that what was done to me was not right. And it will be corrected.”
Another reporter called out. Bosch recognized him from the Times but couldn’t remember his name. But he had sources in the police department and usually had valid information.