The Brass Verdict

Elliot’s fresh martini down along with two wineglasses. He uncorked the bottle Elliot had ordered and asked if he wanted to taste the wine yet. Elliot shook his head and told the waiter to go away.
    “Okay,” I said when we were left alone. “Let’s go back to the bribe. Who was bribed?”
    Elliot took down half his new martini in one gulp.
    “That should be obvious when you think about it.”
    “Then I’m stupid. Help me out.”
    “A trial that cannot be delayed. Why?”
    My eyes stayed on him but I was no longer looking at him. I went inside to work the riddle until it came to me. I ticked off the possibilities – judge, prosecutor, cops, witnesses, jury… I realized that there was only one place where a bribe and an unmovable trial intersected. There was only one aspect that would change if the trial were delayed and rescheduled. The judge, prosecutor and all the witnesses would remain the same no matter when it was scheduled. But the jury pool changes week to week.
    “There’s a sleeper on the jury,” I said. “You got to somebody.”
    Elliot didn’t react. He let me run with it and I did. My mind swept along the faces in the jury box. Two rows of six. I stopped on juror number seven.
    “Number seven. You wanted him in the box. You knew. He’s the sleeper. Who is he?”
    Elliot nodded slightly and gave me that half smile. He took his first bite of fish before answering my question as calmly as if we were talking about the Lakers’ chances at the playoffs and not the rigging of a murder trial.
    “I have no idea who he is and don’t really care to know. But he’s ours. We were told that number seven would be ours. And he’s no sleeper. He’s a persuader. When it gets to deliberations, he will go in there and turn the tide for the defense. With the case Vincent built and you’re delivering, it probably won’t take more than a little push. I’m banking on us getting our verdict. But at minimum he will hold out for acquittal and we’ll have a hung jury. If that happens, we just start all over and do it again. They will never convict me, Mickey. Never.”
    I pushed my plate aside. I couldn’t eat.
    “Walter, no more riddles. Tell me how this went down. Tell me from the start.”
    “From the start?”
    “From the start.”
    Elliot chuckled at the thought of it and poured himself a glass of wine without first tasting from the bottle. A waiter swooped in to take over the operation but Elliot waved him away with the bottle.
    “This is a long story, Mickey. Would you like a glass of wine to go with it?”
    He held the mouth of the bottle poised over my empty glass. I was tempted but I shook my head.
    “No, Walter, I don’t drink.”
    “I’m not sure I can trust someone who doesn’t take a drink from time to time.”
    “I’m your lawyer. You can trust me.”
    “I trusted the last one, too, and look what happened to him.”
    “Don’t threaten me, Walter. Just tell me the story.”
    He drank heavily from his wineglass and then put it down too hard on the table. He looked around to see if anyone in the restaurant had noticed and I got the sense that it was all an act. He was really checking to see if we were being watched. I scanned the angles I had without being obvious. I didn’t see Bosch or anyone else I pegged as a cop in the restaurant.
    Elliot began his story.
    “When you come to Hollywood, it doesn’t matter who you are or where you come from as long as you’ve got one thing in your pocket.”
    “Money.”
    “That’s right. I came here twenty-five years ago and I had money. I put it in a couple of movies first and then into a half-assed studio nobody gave two shits about. And I built that place into a contender. Another five years and it will no longer be the Big Four they talk about. It will be the Big Five. Archway will be right up there with Paramount and Warner’s and the rest.”
    I wasn’t anticipating going back twenty-five years when I told him to start the story from the beginning.
    “Okay, Walter, I get all of that about your success. What are you saying?”
    “I’m saying it wasn’t my money. When I came here, it wasn’t my money.”
    “I thought the story was that you came from a family that owned a phosphate mine or shipping operation in Florida.”
    He nodded emphatically.
    “All true, but it depends on your definition of family.”
    It slowly came to me.
    “Are you talking about the mob, Walter?”
    “I am talking about an organization in