The Lincoln Lawyer: A Novel (12 page)

“There is a third option,” Dobbs said.

I looked from Roulet to Dobbs, wondering what wrench he was about to throw into the franchise machine.

“And what’s that?” I asked.

“We investigate the hell out of her and this case. Maybe help Mr. Levin out with some of our people. We investigate six ways
from Sunday and establish our own credible theory and evidence and present it to the DA. We head this off before it ever gets
to trial. We show this greenhorn prosecutor where he will definitely lose the case and get him to drop all charges before
he suffers that professional embarrassment. Added to this, I am sure this man works for a man who runs that office and is
susceptible, shall we say, to political pressures. We apply it until things turn our way.”

I felt like kicking Dobbs under the table. Not only did his plan involve cutting my biggest fee ever by more than half, not
only did it see the lion’s share of client money going to the investigators, including his own, but it could only have come
from a lawyer who had never defended a criminal case in his entire career.

“That’s an idea but it is very risky,” I said calmly. “If you can blow their case out of the water and you go in before trial
to show
them how, you are also giving them a blueprint for what to do and what to avoid in trial. I don’t like to do that.”

Roulet nodded his agreement and Dobbs looked a bit taken aback. I decided to leave it at that and to address Dobbs further
on it when I could do it without the client present.

“What about the media?” Levin asked, thankfully changing the subject.

“That’s right,” Dobbs said, anxious to change it himself now. “My secretary says I have messages from two newspapers and two
television stations.”

“I probably do as well,” I said.

What I didn’t mention was that the messages left with Dobbs were left by Lorna Taylor at my direction. The case had not attracted
the media yet, other than the freelance videographer who showed up at the first appearance. But I wanted Dobbs and Roulet
and his mother to believe they all could be splashed across the papers at any moment.

“We don’t want publicity on this,” Dobbs said. “This is the worst kind of publicity to get.”

He seemed to be adept at stating the obvious.

“All media should be directed to me,” I said. “I will handle the media and the best way to do that is to ignore it.”

“But we have to say something to defend him,” Dobbs said.

“No, we don’t have to say anything. Talking about the case legitimizes it. If you get into a game of talking to the media,
you keep the story alive. Information is oxygen. Without it they die. As far as I am concerned, let ’em die. Or at least wait
until there is no avoiding them. If that happens, only one person speaks for Louis. That’s me.”

Dobbs reluctantly nodded his agreement. I pointed a finger at Roulet.

“Under no circumstances do you talk to a reporter, even to deny the charges. If they contact you, you send them to me. Got
it?”

“I got it.”

“Good.”

I decided that we had said enough for a first meeting. I stood up.

“Louis, I’ll take you home now.”

But Dobbs wasn’t going to release his grasp on his client so quickly.

“Actually, I’ve been invited to dinner by Louis’s mother,” he said. “I could take him, since I am going there.”

I nodded my approval. The criminal defense attorney never seemed to get invited to dinner.

“Fine,” I said. “But we’ll meet you there. I want Raul to see his place and Louis needs to give me that check we spoke about
earlier.”

If they thought I had forgotten about the money, they had a lot to learn about me. Dobbs looked at Roulet and got an approving
nod. Dobbs then nodded to me.

“Sounds like a plan,” he said. “We’ll meet again there.”

Fifteen minutes later I was riding in the back of the Lincoln with Levin. We were following a silver Mercedes carrying Dobbs
and Roulet. I was checking with Lorna on the phone. The only message of importance had come from Gloria Dayton’s prosecutor,
Leslie Faire. The message was we had a deal.

“So,” Levin said when I closed the phone. “What do you really think?”

“I think there is a lot of money to be made on this case and we’re about to go get the first installment. Sorry I’m dragging
you over there. I didn’t want it to seem like it was all about the check.”

Levin nodded but didn’t say anything. After a few moments I continued.

“I’m not sure what to think yet,” I said. “Whatever happened in that apartment happened quick. That’s a break for us. No actual
rape, no DNA. That gives us a glimmer of hope.”

“It sort of reminds me of Jesus Menendez, only without DNA. Remember him?”

“Yeah, but I don’t want to.”

I tried not to think about clients who were in prison without
appellate hopes or anything else left but years of time in front of them to nut out. I do what I can with each case but sometimes
there is nothing that can be done. Jesus Menendez’s case was one of those.

“How’s your time on this?” I asked, putting us back on course.

“I’ve got a few things but I can move them around.”

“You are going to have to work nights on this. I need you to go into those bars. I want to know everything about him and everything
about her. This case looks simple at this point. We knock her down and we knock the case down.”

Levin nodded. He had his briefcase on his lap.

“You got your camera in there?”

“Always.”

“When we get to the house take some pictures of Roulet. I don’t want you showing his mug shot in the bars. It’ll taint things.
Can you get a picture of the woman without her face being all messed up?”

“I got her driver’s license photo. It’s recent.”

“Good. Run them down. If we find a witness who saw her come over to him at the bar in Morgan’s last night, then we’re gold.”

“That’s where I was thinking I’d start. Give me a week or so. I’ll come back to you before the arraignment.”

I nodded. We drove in silence for a few minutes, thinking about the case. We were moving through the flats of Beverly Hills,
heading up into the neighborhoods where the real money was hidden and waiting.

“And you know what else I think?” I said. “Money and everything aside, I think there’s a chance he isn’t lying. His story
is just quirky enough to be true.”

Levin whistled softly between his teeth.

“You think you might have found the innocent man?” he said.

“That would be a first,” I said. “If I had only known it this morning, I would have charged him the innocent man premium.
If you’re innocent you pay more because you’re a hell of a lot more trouble to defend.”

“Ain’t that the truth.”

I thought about the idea of having an innocent client and the dangers involved.

“You know what my father said about innocent clients?”

“I thought your father died when you were like six years old.”

“Five, actually. They didn’t even take me to the funeral.”

“And he was talking to you about innocent clients when you were five?”

“No, I read it in a book long after he was gone. He said the scariest client a lawyer will ever have is an innocent client.
Because if you fuck up and he goes to prison, it’ll scar you for life.”

“He said it like that?”

“Words to that effect. He said there is no in-between with an innocent client. No negotiation, no plea bargaining, no middle
ground. There’s only one verdict. You have to put an NG up on the scoreboard. There’s no other verdict but not guilty.”

Levin nodded thoughtfully.

“The bottom line was my old man was a damn good lawyer and he didn’t like having innocent clients,” I said. “I’m not sure
I do, either.”

Thursday, March 17

T
he first ad I ever put in the yellow pages said “Any Case, Anytime, Anywhere” but I changed it after a few years. Not because
the bar objected to it, but because
I
objected to it. I got more particular. Los Angeles County is a wrinkled blanket that covers four thousand square miles from
the desert to the Pacific. There are more than ten million people fighting for space on the blanket and a considerable number
of them engage in criminal activity as a lifestyle choice. The latest crime stats show almost a hundred thousand violent crimes
are reported each year in the county. Last year there were 140,000 felony arrests and then another 50,000 high-end misdemeanor
arrests for drug and sex offenses. Add in the DUIs and every year you could fill the Rose Bowl twice over with potential clients.
The thing to remember is that you don’t want clients from the cheap seats. You want the ones sitting on the fifty-yard line.
The ones with money in their pockets.

When the criminals get caught they get funneled into a justice system that has more than forty courthouses spread across the
county like Burger Kings ready to serve them—as in serve them up on a plate. These stone fortresses are the watering holes
where the legal lions come to hunt and to feed. And the smart hunter learns quickly where the most bountiful locations are,
where the paying clients graze. The hunt can be deceptive. The client base of each
courthouse does not necessarily reflect the socioeconomic structure of the surrounding environs. Courthouses in Compton, Downey
and East Los Angeles have produced a steady line of paying clients for me. These clients are usually accused of being drug
dealers but their money is just as green as a Beverly Hills stock swindler’s.

On the morning of the seventeenth I was in the Compton courthouse representing Darius McGinley at his sentencing. Repeat offenders
mean repeat customers and McGinley was both, as many of my clients tend to be. For the sixth time since I had known him, he
had been arrested and charged with dealing crack cocaine. This time it was in Nickerson Gardens, a housing project known by
most of its residents as Nixon Gardens. No one I ever asked knew whether this was an abbreviation of the true name of the
place or a name bestowed in honor of the president who held office when the vast apartment complex and drug market was built.
McGinley was arrested after making a direct hand-to-hand sale of a balloon containing a dozen rocks to an undercover narcotics
officer. At the time, he had been out on bail after being arrested for the exact same offense two months earlier. He also
had four prior convictions for drug sales on his record.

Things didn’t look good for McGinley, who was only twenty-three years old. After he’d taken so many previous swings at the
system, the system had now run out of patience with him. The hammer was coming down. Though McGinley had been coddled previously
with sentences of probation and county jail time, the prosecutor set the bar at the prison level this time. Any negotiation
of a plea agreement would begin and end with a prison sentence. Otherwise, no deal. The prosecutor was happy to take the two
outstanding cases to trial and go for a conviction and a double-digit prison sentence.

The choice was hard but simple. The state held all of the cards. They had him cold on two hand-to-hand sales with quantity.
The reality was that a trial would be an exercise in futility. McGinley knew this. The reality was that his selling of three
hundred dollars in rock cocaine to a cop was going to cost him at least three years of his life.

As with many of my young male clients from the south side of the city, prison was an anticipated part of life for McGinley.
He grew
up knowing he was going. The only questions were when and for how long and whether he would live long enough to make it there.
In my many jailhouse meetings with him over the years, I had learned that McGinley carried a personal philosophy inspired
by the life and death and rap music of Tupac Shakur, the thug poet whose rhymes carried the hope and hopelessness of the desolate
streets McGinley called home. Tupac correctly prophesied his own violent death. South L.A. teemed with young men who carried
the exact same vision.

McGinley was one of them. He would recite to me long riffs from Tupac’s CDs. He would translate the meanings of the ghetto
lyrics for me. It was an education I valued because McGinley was only one of many clients with a shared belief in a final
destiny that was “Thug Mansion,” the place between heaven and earth where all gangsters ended up. To McGinley, prison was
only a rite of passage on the road to that place and he was ready to make the journey.

“I’ll lay up, get stronger and smarter, then I’ll be back,” he said to me.

He told me to go ahead and make a deal. He had five thousand dollars delivered to me in a money order—I didn’t ask where it
came from—and I went back to the prosecutor, got both pending cases folded into one, and McGinley agreed to plead guilty.
The only thing he ever asked me to try to get for him was an assignment to a prison close by so his mother and his three young
children wouldn’t have to be driven too far or too long to visit him.

When court was called into session, Judge Daniel Flynn came through the door of his chambers in an emerald green robe, which
brought false smiles from many of the lawyers and court workers in the room. He was known to wear the green on two occasions
each year—St. Patrick’s Day and the Friday before the Notre Dame Fighting Irish took on the Southern Cal Trojans on the football
field. He was also known among the lawyers who worked the Compton courthouse as “Danny Boy,” as in, “Danny Boy sure is an
insensitive Irish prick, isn’t he?”

The clerk called the case and I stepped up and announced. McGinley was brought in through a side door and stood next to me
in an orange jumpsuit with his wrists locked to a waist chain. He had no one out in the gallery to watch him go down. He was
alone except for me.

“Top o’ the morning to you, Mr. McGinley,” Flynn said in an Irish brogue. “You know what today is?”

I lowered my eyes to the floor. McGinley mumbled his response.

“The day I get my sentence.”

“That, too. But I am talking about St. Patrick’s Day, Mr. McGinley. A day to revel in Irish heritage.”