White Sister (34 page)

Chase Beal cleared his throat. "Commissioner Easton, this man, Shane Scully, is a suspect in the prior high-profile murder of Police Officer David Slade. He's also now being charged with the first
-
degree murder of Diamond Simonette. The people don't think a one-million-dollar bond is anywhere near sufficient. Further and to the point, this is an officer who has recently displayed a blatant lack of self-control. He has made two unlawful searches without warrants as well as being unlawfully involved in numerous other cases in the past. We've filed several documents in support of all this. I think you have them in your file up there along with his past Internal Affairs charge sheets." He shuffled his papers. "We'd like to . . ."

"Hold on a minute, Mr. Beal. Let me read this stuff. I'm not from Yale, like you. Went to little old Glendale City College. Gonna take me a minute." I liked the sound of that. We had a class war going. Then Commissioner Easton looked up. "Says here the
I
. A
. charges were all dropped in oh-two." He was frowning.

"Your honor, the people contend those charges were dropped for dubious reasons. Detective Scully's record shows a longstanding slipshod approach to the law. We believe past behavior strikes to character, regardless of whether I
. A
. filed its charges. It's our contention that, when taken as a whole, this officer's record supports the people's case that he is a rogue cop and, as such, is also a flight risk." Beal took a breath, then continued. "As a police officer and notorious rule-bender, he also has access to weapons. He knows the street and could easily obtain a forged passport. Our feeling is he needs to be held with sufficient bail to guarantee incarceration."

"And what would that figure be?" Easton asked, raising bushy eyebrows.

"Five million dollars," Beal said.

"Is he kidding?" I blurted. Gunner was looking down into his briefcase and failed to stop my outburst. "I can't even afford a million," I raged at the commissioner.

"Shut up, asshole. Let me do this," Gunner growled under his breath.

"Mr. Gustafson?" Commissioner Easton said. "Any response?"

Now my guy went to work.

"We City College guys probably just don't get it," he began. "As his reasons for this ungodly bail, the District Attorney documents I
. A
. charges that have been dropped but says we should acknowledge them anyway, while ignoring a distinguished twenty-plus
-
year career in law enforcement, where Detective Scully has risked his life numerous times protecting the public." Gunner shook his head in disbelief. "Further, in response to Mr. Beal's first point, the incomplete Slade murder investigation,, let me say, if the people have an actual case against my client on that, then I suggest they file it. If not, then stop talking about it, 'cause it's just not relevant. Further, let me add that my client is a double Medal of Valor winner, who currently is assigned to Homicide Special, arguably the most elite murder squad in the entire country. I would also like to point out that his wife, the acting head of the Detective Bureau, is undergoing brain surgery at UCLA Medical at ten o'clock thi
s m
orning. As a loving husband, Detective Scully should be allowed to make reasonable bail so he can be there to help make decisions on her behalf. I'd further point out that since this one-eighty-seven is being filed under the Felony Homicide Rule, nobody
it seems
is claiming he actually killed anybody. It's pretty obvious that my client is being grossly overcharged with Murder One in a transparent attempt to keep him from making bail. At best, this is Involuntary Manslaughter, or Negligent Homicide or maybe nothing at all."

"Except, as you know, the Arraignment Court doesn't determine the filing, Mr. Gustafson; the District Attorney does," Easton said. "Mr. Beal can charge him here with whatever he wants. A trial will eventually determine if he's been overcharged."

"I know, but trying for unreasonable bail under a bogus Murder One indictment, is certainly something we can discuss in relation to the District Attorney's bail deviance request."

Easton nodded. "Fair enough."

"Third, I sent you an arson report of an incident that occurred at the Men's Central Jail at three a
. M
. this morning," Gunner continued. "You should have the report by now. If necessary, in less than an hour I can fill this court with witnesses to the event. In essence, somebody tried to kill Detective Scully by squirting gasoline into his isolation cell at MCJ and throwing in a match in an attempt to immolate him. You can plainly see his hair and arm are burned. Unless Mr. Beal can guarantee that the jail will do a better job of keeping this man alive, I don't think we should further risk his life by forcing his incarceration in an unsafe facility under overreaching and unfair bail requirements."

The commissioner turned to his clerk, who was just returning from chambers and handed Easton the arson report. He quickly scanned it, and then looked up.

"Anything to say, Mr. Beal?"

"Commissioner, what happened in that jail or why, has no effect on this hearing. Should we now let everybody out because one attempt was partially successful down there? That's ridiculous. The incident, such as it was, is being investigated. If a crime was committed, charges will be filed."

"Okay. Proceed, Mr. Gustafson," the commissioner said.

"We have also filed a bail deviance request of our own," Gunner said. "My client can't make the million-dollar bond. We want the bail lowered to five hundred thousand dollars, which is in keeping with the facts surrounding the charge. Detective Scully needs to be at his wife's side. Further, in attesting to Detective Scully's stability, the court should note that he has a son enrolled at USC and a house in Venice, California, that is almost half paid for. This man is not going to cut and run, Commissioner. He'll be here for trial."

Commissioner Easton was in a tough place. Whatever he did, his decision was going to be second-guessed. I could see the frown stretch across his craggy face. Finally, he looked down at us and pronounced his decision.

"Bail will be left at one million dollars," he said, playing it safe.

"Your honor, I don't have a million dollars," I blurted.

"Then you're remanded to custody at the county jail until trial. Preliminary hearing is on October twelfth. Clear the court," he said and the bailiff turned and waved at the COs to come get me. As this was happening, Gunner Gustafson was reaching for his vibrating cell phone.

"Man, not even eight-thirty and this thing is already giving me a rubdown." He flipped it open and answered it. "Yeah . . . yeah . . . sure. I guess." He turned at looked at me.

"You switching lawyers already?" he frowned. "I'm a better kisser than that, aren't I?"

"What are you talking about?"

"Pryce Patterson for you." I must have looked confused, because he added, "Senior partner at some white-shoe Beverly Hills law firm. He's their big muckety-muck." Gunner handed the phone over. "Knock yourself out."

"Hello?" I said.

"Is this Shane Scully?" a cultured, nasal voice said.

"Yes."

"Has your bail been determined yet?"

"A million dollars, why?"

"I'm right downstairs in the lobby with an open cashier's check. If you'll meet me at the bail clerk's desk, we'll do the paperwork and you'll be out of here in a jiff." "A cashier's check? How come?"

"My client, Lionel Wright, has taken an interest in your case," the nasal voice replied.

Chapter
51.

PRYCE PATTERSON LOOKED like his name. All that was missing was the tennis racket and the Alpaca sweater tied around his neck. His suit was a custom Brioni, and he had one of those ninety
-
day wonder attitudes that allowed him to look through rimless glasses and down his nose at the world. Not exactly my kind of guy. I wondered why a street guy like Lionel Wright would hire such a vanilla pastry.

"I'm not a criminal attorney," he intoned needlessly. "My specialty is estate planning and wills." Answering that question. When it came to managing money, a vibrant personality is not a prerequisite.

We were standing in the bond clerk's cluttered office on the first floor of the courthouse. It was a little after nine a
. M
. Gunner Gustafson appeared with the release papers and as soon as he showed up, Pryce Patterson began casting glances at my legal assassin, wondering, no doubt, how this bellicose midget had eve
r m
anaged to pass the bar. Like a French poodle that suddenly finds a coyote in his backyard, he was unsettled and slightly appalled.

I signed the bail slip. Because Lionel Wright had posted the entire million, I didn't need to involve a bondsman. I was notified that when I showed up for my October twelfth scheduled court appearance, the bond would be returned, minus a few hundred dollars for processing.

Patterson handed me a business card with a phone number written on the back and said, "Mr. Wright requests that you give him a call once you have a chance." All very polite, as if we were buying art instead of freedom.

We all walked out of the courthouse at nine-fifteen, right into the teeth of ten reporters, all of them pissed because they'd been juked by the half-hour time change, causing them to miss the colorful news event in Division Thirty. There were lots of shouted questions.

"Detective Scully! Any comment on your arrest for murder?"

Yeah, right. Good luck on that one.

Tucking my tail, I again ran from those jackals like the media fugitive I had recently become. All I wanted to do was get over to UCLA. Gunner offered me a ride back to the El Rey Theatre to pick up Chooch's Jeep, which I prayed hadn't been towed. I desperately needed his laptop. If I hustled and the Jeep was there, I could still make it to the hospital in time. It was a miracle that I had pulled this off.

We got into Gunner's new gray Mercedes S-55, which was the last car I would have expected him to own. He seemed more like a Ford truck type of guy. He put the expensive car in gear and powered away while TV crews raced to the sidewalk to photograph our exit.

"Don't talk to those guys," Gunner said, jerking a thumb over his shoulder at the scrambling pack of reporters. "Contact with the media will only fuck us in the ass."

I love a plain-talking lawyer.

"We need to set up a meeting," he went on, "I'll start filing my discovery motions this afternoon. We'll see how much real amm
o t
he D
. A
. has. Then sometime in the next two days we have to sit down and go through it."

"Good. That's fine." I waved a vague hand at him, not paying much attention.

"Are you even listening to me?" he said, picking up on my distraction.

"No." I looked over at him. His fighter's chin was pointed defiantly out the window at the morning traffic. "I'm sorry. With my wife going into surgery, I can't focus on this right now, but I will call you."

When we pulled around behind the El Rey, wonder of wonders, the Cherokee was still in the alley. Gunner dug into his wallet and handed me a cheap card that looked like it had been printed at Kinko's. I thanked him for all he'd done on such short notice. Then I headed to the car and took off.

At ten-fifteen I finally arrived back at UCLA. There were several news crews holding down this location as well. I noticed that a stage had been built in the parking lot for a press conference. Crews were setting up a sound system. A banner declared: black justice. blind faith.

My beautiful wife could be dying while politicians and activists were getting set to dance on her grave. At least I didn't have to hide anymore. I was out on bail. I could go where I wanted.

As I made my way up to Neurosurgery, I was stopped twice by hospital security and had to show an ID that corresponded to a patient's name to get in. When I finally got there, I found Chooch sitting alone in the small waiting room. As I came through the door he jumped to his feet and embraced me.

"Dad . . . Dad . . . thank God you got here," he said, holding on to me as if afraid to let go.

"It's okay, son," I said, trying to calm us both, but having no effect.

"You got arrested. I knew you wouldn't want me to leave Mom. I tried calling the jail, but they wouldn't put me through."

I didn't tell him about the fire at MCJ and being held and questioned all night. Then he was focusing on my burned hair.

"It's okay," I said. "Little accident. Here's my parental tip fo
r t
he day. Never play with fire." I smiled. He didn't. "No real damage. Once it grows out, it'll be fine."

"Thank God you're here," he said. "It was such a madhouse; Luther finally made the hospital throw the press out. It's been horrible."

We sat together in the empty room. Then Chooch said, "Luther says it's gonna be hours till we know anything. If you want, we could get some coffee."

"I want to stay here. You don't know how hard it was for me just to make it in the first place."

So we sat in the small lounge and waited. Around eleven a newspaper guy and his photographer found a way past security and came through the door asking questions and snapping pictures. I got up and advanced on them, not sure if I was in complete control of myself, but I'd had it. I snatched the camera out of the photographer's hand. It was a digital and I can never figure those things out. I wanted to rip out a roll of film and theatrically expose it, like some hero in a '40s movie. But after battling with the camera for a few seconds, I pitched it over to Chooch, who removed the memory card and tossed the camera back to the man.