Read Online The Brass Verdict by Michael Connelly - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Michael Connelly
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yes that you understand it, and then the judge will enter the sentence. Fifteen minutes in and out.”
“I don’t care how long it takes. I ain’t got nowhere to go.”
I nodded and left him there. I tapped lightly on the metal door so the deputy — bailiffs in L.A. County are sheriffs’ deputies — in the courtroom would hear it but hopefully not the judge. He let me out and I sat in the first row of the gallery. I opened up my case and pulled out most of the files, putting them down on the bench next to me.
The top file was the Edgar Reese file. I had already reviewed this one in preparation for the sentencing. Reese was one of Vincent’s repeat clients. It was a garden-variety drug case. A seller who used his own product, Reese was set up on a buy-bust by a customer working as a confidential informant. According to the background information in the file, the CI zeroed in on Reese because he held a grudge against him. He had previously bought cocaine from Reese and found it had been hit too hard with baby laxative. This was a frequent mistake made by dealers who were also users. They cut the product too hard, thereby increasing the amount kept for their own personal use but diluting the charge delivered by the powder they sold. It was a bad business practice because it bred enemies. A user trying to work off a charge by cooperating as a CI is more inclined to set up a dealer he doesn’t like than a dealer he does. This was the business lesson Edgar Reese would have to think about for the next five years in state prison.
I put the file back in my bag and looked at what was next on the stack. The file on top belonged to Patrick Henson, the painkiller case I had told Lorna I would be dropping. I leaned over to put the file back in the bag, when I suddenly sat back against the bench and held it on my lap. I flapped it against my thigh a couple times as I reconsidered things and then opened it.
Henson was a twenty-four-year-old surfer from Malibu by way of Florida. He was a professional but at the low end of the spectrum, with limited endorsements and winnings from the pro tour. In a competition on Maui, he’d wiped out in a wave that drove him down hard into the lava bottom of Pehei. It crimped his shoulder, and after surgery to scrape it out, the doctor prescribed oxycodone. Eighteen months later Henson was a full-blown addict, chasing pills to chase the pain. He lost his sponsors and was too weak to compete anymore. He finally hit bottom when he stole a diamond necklace from a home in Malibu to which he’d been invited by a female friend. According to the sheriff’s report, the necklace belonged to his friend’s mother and contained eight diamonds representing her three children and five grandchildren. It was listed on the report as worth $25,000 but Henson hocked it for $400 and went down to Mexico to buy two hundred tabs of oxy over the counter.
Henson was easy to connect to the caper. The diamond necklace was recovered from the pawnshop and the film from the security camera showed him pawning it. Because of the high value of the necklace, he was hit with a full deck, dealing in stolen property and grand theft, along with illegal drug possession. It also didn’t help that the lady he stole the necklace from was married to a well-connected doctor who had contributed liberally to the reelection of several members of the county board of supervisors.
When Vincent took Henson on as a client, the surfer made the initial $5,000 advance payment in trade. Vincent took all twelve of his custom-made Trick Henson boards and sold them through his liquidator to collectors and on eBay. Henson was also placed on the $1,000-a-month payment plan but had never made a single payment because he had gone into rehab the day after being bailed out of jail by his mother, who lived back in Melbourne, Florida.
The file said Henson had successfully completed rehab and was working part-time at a surf camp for kids on the beach in
“I don’t care how long it takes. I ain’t got nowhere to go.”
I nodded and left him there. I tapped lightly on the metal door so the deputy — bailiffs in L.A. County are sheriffs’ deputies — in the courtroom would hear it but hopefully not the judge. He let me out and I sat in the first row of the gallery. I opened up my case and pulled out most of the files, putting them down on the bench next to me.
The top file was the Edgar Reese file. I had already reviewed this one in preparation for the sentencing. Reese was one of Vincent’s repeat clients. It was a garden-variety drug case. A seller who used his own product, Reese was set up on a buy-bust by a customer working as a confidential informant. According to the background information in the file, the CI zeroed in on Reese because he held a grudge against him. He had previously bought cocaine from Reese and found it had been hit too hard with baby laxative. This was a frequent mistake made by dealers who were also users. They cut the product too hard, thereby increasing the amount kept for their own personal use but diluting the charge delivered by the powder they sold. It was a bad business practice because it bred enemies. A user trying to work off a charge by cooperating as a CI is more inclined to set up a dealer he doesn’t like than a dealer he does. This was the business lesson Edgar Reese would have to think about for the next five years in state prison.
I put the file back in my bag and looked at what was next on the stack. The file on top belonged to Patrick Henson, the painkiller case I had told Lorna I would be dropping. I leaned over to put the file back in the bag, when I suddenly sat back against the bench and held it on my lap. I flapped it against my thigh a couple times as I reconsidered things and then opened it.
Henson was a twenty-four-year-old surfer from Malibu by way of Florida. He was a professional but at the low end of the spectrum, with limited endorsements and winnings from the pro tour. In a competition on Maui, he’d wiped out in a wave that drove him down hard into the lava bottom of Pehei. It crimped his shoulder, and after surgery to scrape it out, the doctor prescribed oxycodone. Eighteen months later Henson was a full-blown addict, chasing pills to chase the pain. He lost his sponsors and was too weak to compete anymore. He finally hit bottom when he stole a diamond necklace from a home in Malibu to which he’d been invited by a female friend. According to the sheriff’s report, the necklace belonged to his friend’s mother and contained eight diamonds representing her three children and five grandchildren. It was listed on the report as worth $25,000 but Henson hocked it for $400 and went down to Mexico to buy two hundred tabs of oxy over the counter.
Henson was easy to connect to the caper. The diamond necklace was recovered from the pawnshop and the film from the security camera showed him pawning it. Because of the high value of the necklace, he was hit with a full deck, dealing in stolen property and grand theft, along with illegal drug possession. It also didn’t help that the lady he stole the necklace from was married to a well-connected doctor who had contributed liberally to the reelection of several members of the county board of supervisors.
When Vincent took Henson on as a client, the surfer made the initial $5,000 advance payment in trade. Vincent took all twelve of his custom-made Trick Henson boards and sold them through his liquidator to collectors and on eBay. Henson was also placed on the $1,000-a-month payment plan but had never made a single payment because he had gone into rehab the day after being bailed out of jail by his mother, who lived back in Melbourne, Florida.
The file said Henson had successfully completed rehab and was working part-time at a surf camp for kids on the beach in
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