The Lincoln Lawyer: A Novel (15 page)

“And none of this is in the reports you got before?”

“Nope. Like I told you, there hasn’t been a lot of follow-up by the cops. At least so far.”

“If she graduated from amateur to pro, she could’ve graduated to setting a guy like Roulet up. He drives a nice car, wears
nice clothes… have you seen his watch?”

“Yeah, a Rolex. If it’s real, then he’s wearing ten grand right there on his wrist. She could have seen that from across the
bar. Maybe that’s why she picked him out of all the rest.”

We were back by the courthouse. I had to start heading toward downtown. I asked Levin where he was parked and he directed
Earl to the lot.

“This is all good,” I said. “But it means Louis lied about more than UCLA.”

“Yeah,” Levin agreed. “He knew he was going into a pay-for-play deal with her. He should have told you about it.”

“Yeah, and now I’m going to talk to
him
about it.”

We pulled up next to the curb outside a pay lot on Acacia. Levin took a file out of his briefcase. It had a rubber band around
it that held a piece of paper to the outside cover. He held it out to me and I saw the document was an invoice for almost
six thousand dollars for eight days of investigative services and expenses. Based on what I had heard during the last half
hour, the price was a bargain.

“That file has everything we just talked about, plus a copy of the video from Morgan’s on disc,” Levin said.

I hesitantly took the file. By taking it I was moving it into the realm of discovery. Not accepting it and keeping everything
with Levin would have given me a buffer, wiggle room if I got into a discovery scrap with the prosecutor.

I tapped the invoice with my finger.

“I’ll call this in to Lorna and we’ll send out a check,” I said.

“How is Lorna? I miss seeing her.”

When we were married, Lorna used to ride with me a lot and go into court with me to watch. Sometimes when I was short a driver
she would take the wheel. Levin saw her more often back then.

“She’s doing great. She’s still Lorna.”

Levin cracked his door open but didn’t get out.

“You want me to stay on Reggie?”

That was the question. If I approved I would lose all deniability if something went wrong. Because now I would know what he
was doing. I hesitated but then I nodded.

“Very loose. And don’t farm it out. I only trust you on it.”

“Don’t worry. I’ll handle it myself. What else?”

“The left-handed man. We have to figure out who Mr. X is and whether he was part of this thing or just another customer.”

Levin nodded and pumped his left-handed fist again.

“I’m on it.”

He put on his sunglasses, opened the door and slid out. He reached back in for his briefcase and his unopened bottle of water,
then said good-bye and closed the door. I watched him start walking through the lot in search of his car. I should have been
ecstatic about all I had just learned. It tilted everything steeply toward my client. But I still felt uneasy about something
I couldn’t quite put my finger on.

Earl had turned his music off and was awaiting direction.

“Take me downtown, Earl,” I said.

“You got it,” he replied. “The CCB?”

“Yeah and, hey, who was that you were listening to on the ’Pod? I could sort of hear it.”

“That was Snoop. Gotta play him up loud.”

I nodded. L.A.’s own. And a former defendant who faced down the machine on a murder charge and walked away. There was no better
story of inspiration on the street.

“Earl?” I said. “Take the seven-ten. We’re running late.”

S
am Scales was a Hollywood con man. He specialized in Internet schemes designed to gather credit card numbers and verification
data that he would then turn and sell in the financial underworld. The first time we had worked together he had been arrested
for selling six hundred card numbers and their attendant verification information—expiration dates and the addresses, social
security numbers and passwords of the rightful owners of the cards—to an undercover sheriff’s deputy.

Scales had gotten the numbers and information by sending out an e-mail to five thousand people who were on the customer list
of a Delaware-based company that sold a weight-loss product called TrimSlim6 over the Internet. The list had been stolen from
the company’s computer by a hacker who did freelance work for Scales. Using a rent-by-the-hour computer in a Kinko’s and a
temporary e-mail address, Scales then sent out a mass mailing to all those on the list. He identified himself as counsel for
the federal Food and Drug Administration and told the recipients that their credit cards would be refunded the full amount
of their purchases of TrimSlim6 following an FDA recall of the product. He said FDA testing of the product proved it to be
ineffective in promoting weight loss. He said the makers of the product had agreed to refund all purchases in an effort to
avoid fraud charges. He concluded the e-mail with instructions for confirming the refund.
These included providing the credit card number, expiration date and all other pertinent verification data.

Of the five thousand recipients of the message, there were six hundred who bit. Scales then made an Internet contact in the
underworld and set up a hand-to-hand sale, six hundred credit card numbers and vitals for ten thousand in cash. It meant that
within days the numbers would be stamped on plastic blanks and then put to use. It was a fraud that would reach into the millions
of dollars in losses.

But it was stunted in a West Hollywood coffee shop where Scales handed over a printout to his buyer and was given a thick
envelope containing cash in return. When he walked out carrying the envelope and an iced decaf latte he was met by sheriff’s
deputies. He had sold his numbers to an undercover.

Scales hired me to get him a deal. He was thirty-three years old at the time and had a clean record, even though there were
indications and evidence that he had never held a lawful job. By focusing the prosecutor assigned to the case on the theft
of card numbers rather than the potential losses of the fraud, I was able to get Scales a disposition to his liking. He pleaded
guilty to one felony count of identity theft and received a one-year suspended sentence, sixty days of CalTrans work and four
years of probation.

That was the first time. That was three years ago. Sam Scales did not take the opportunity afforded him by the no-jail sentence.
He was now back in custody and I was defending him in a fraud case so reprehensible that it was clear from the start that
it was going to be beyond my ability to keep him out of prison.

On December 28 of the previous year Scales used a front company to register a domain name of SunamiHelp.com on the World Wide Web. On the home page of the website he put photographs of the destruction and death left two days earlier
when a tsunami in the Indian Ocean devastated parts of Indonesia, Sri Lanka, India and Thailand. The site asked viewers to
please help by making a donation to SunamiHelp which would then distribute it among the numerous agencies responding to the
disaster. The site also carried the photograph of a handsome white man identified as Reverend
Charles, who was engaged in the work of bringing Christianity to Indonesia. A personal note from Reverend Charles was posted
on the site and it asked viewers to give from the heart.

Scales was smart but not that smart. He didn’t want to steal the donations made to the site. He only wanted to steal the credit
card information used to make the donations. The investigation that followed his arrest showed that all contributions made
through the site actually were forwarded to the American Red Cross and did go to efforts to help victims of the devastating
tsunami.

But the numbers and information from the credit cards used to make those donations were also forwarded to the financial underworld.
Scales was arrested when a detective with the LAPD’s fraud-by-trick unit named Roy Wunderlich found the website. Knowing that
disasters always drew out the con artists in droves, Wunderlich had started typing in possible website names in which the
word
tsunami
was misspelled. There were several legitimate tsunami donation sites on the web and he typed in variations of these, always
misspelling the word. His thinking was that the con artists would misspell the word when they set up fraud sites in an effort
to draw potential victims who were likely to be of a lower education level. SunamiHelp.com was among several questionable sites the detective found. Most of these he forwarded to an FBI task force looking at the
problem on a nationwide scale. But when he checked the domain registration of SunamiHelp.com, he found a Los Angeles post office box. That gave Wunderlich jurisdiction. He was in business. He kept SunamiHelp.com for himself.

The PO box turned out to be a dead address but Wunderlich was undeterred. He floated a balloon, meaning he made a controlled
purchase, or in this case a controlled donation.

The credit card number the detective provided while making a twenty-dollar donation would be monitored twenty-four hours a
day by the Visa fraud unit and he would be informed instantly of any purchase made on the account. Within three days of the
donation the credit card was used to purchase an eleven-dollar lunch at the Gumbo Pot restaurant in the Farmers Market at
Fairfax and Third.
Wunderlich knew that it had simply been a test purchase. Something small and easily coverable with cash if the user of the
counterfeit credit card encountered a problem at the point of purchase.

The restaurant purchase was allowed to go through and Wunderlich and four other detectives from the trick unit were dispatched
to the Farmers Market, a sprawling blend of old and new shops and restaurants that was always crowded and therefore a perfect
place for credit card con artists to operate. The investigators would spread out in the complex and wait while Wunderlich
continued to monitor the card’s use by phone.

Two hours after the first purchase the control number was used again to purchase a six-hundred-dollar leather jacket at the
Nordstrom in the market. The credit card approval was delayed but not stopped. The detectives moved in and arrested a young
woman as she was completing the purchase of the jacket. The case then became what is known as a “snitch chain,” the police
following one suspect to the next as they snitched each other off and the arrests moved up the ladder.

Eventually they came to the man sitting at the top of that ladder, Sam Scales. When the story broke in the press Wunderlich
referred to him as the Tsunami Svengali because so many victims of the scam turned out to be women who had wanted to help
the handsome minister pictured on the website. The nickname angered Scales, and in my discussions with him he took to referring
to the detective who had brought him down as Wunder Boy.

I got to Department 124 on the thirteenth floor of the Criminal Courts Building by 10:45 but the courtroom was empty except
for Marianne, the judge’s clerk. I went through the bar and approached her station.

“You guys still doing the calendar?” I asked.

“Just waiting on you. I’ll call everybody and tell the judge.”

“She mad at me?”

Marianne shrugged. She wouldn’t answer for the judge. Especially to a defense attorney. But in a way, she was telling me that
the judge wasn’t happy.

“Is Scales still back there?”

“Should be. I don’t know where Joe went.”

I turned and went over to the defense table and sat down and waited. Eventually, the door to the lockup opened and Joe Frey,
the bailiff assigned to 124, stepped out.

“You still got my guy back there?”

“Just barely. We thought you were a no-show again. You want to go back?”

He held the steel door open for me and I stepped into a small room with a stairwell going up to the courthouse jail on the
fourteenth floor and two doors leading to the smaller holding rooms for 124. One of the doors had a glass panel. It was for
attorney-client meetings and I could see Sam Scales sitting by himself at a table behind the glass. He was wearing an orange
jumpsuit and had steel cuffs on his wrists. He was being held without bail because his latest arrest violated his probation
on the TrimSlim6 conviction. The sweet deal I had gotten him on that was about to go down the tubes.

“Finally,” Scales said as I walked in.

“Like you’re going anywhere. You ready to do this?”

“If I have no choice.”

I sat down across from him.

“Sam, you always have a choice. But let me explain it again. They’ve got you cold on this, okay? You were caught ripping off
people who wanted to help the people caught in one of the worst natural disasters in recorded history. They’ve got three co-conspirators
who took deals to testify against you. They have the list of card numbers found in your possession. What I am saying is that
at the end of the day, you are going to get about as much sympathy from the judge and a jury—if it should come to that—as
they would give a child raper. Maybe even less.”

“I know all of that but I am a useful asset to society. I could educate people. Put me in the schools. Put me in the country
clubs. Put me on probation and I’ll tell people what to watch out for out there.”

“
You
are who they have to watch out for. You blew your chance with the last one and the prosecution said this is the final offer
on
this one. You don’t take it and they’re going to go to the wall on this. The one thing I can guarantee you is that there will
be no mercy.”

So many of my clients are like Sam Scales. They hopelessly believe there is a light behind the door. And I’m the one who has
to tell them the door is locked and that the bulb burned out long ago anyway.

“Then I guess I have to do it,” Scales said, looking at me with eyes that blamed me for not finding a way out for him.

“It’s your choice. You want a trial, we’ll go to trial. Your exposure will be ten years plus the one you’ve got left on the
probation. You make ’em real mad and they can also ship you over to the FBI so the feds can take a swing at you on interstate
wire fraud if they want.”