The Lincoln Lawyer: A Novel (27 page)

“Don’t do the crime if you can’t do the time.”

I sang it like Sammy Davis did on that old television show.

“Please don’t sing to me, Mick.”

“Sorry.”

“Why are we sending ten copies to him? Isn’t one enough?”

“Because he’ll keep one for himself and spread the other nine around the prison and then your phone will start ringing. An
attorney who can win on appeal is like gold in prison. They’ll come calling and you’re going to have to weed ’em out and find
the ones who have family and can pay.”

“You always have an angle, don’t you?”

“I try to. Anything else happening?”

“Just the usual. The calls you told me you didn’t want to hear about. Did you get in to see Glory Days yesterday at County?”

“It’s Gloria Dayton and, yes, I got in to see her. She looks like she’s over the hump. She’s still got more than a month to
go.”

The truth was, Gloria Dayton looked better than over the hump. I hadn’t seen her so sharp and bright-eyed in years. I’d had
a purpose for going down to County-USC Medical Center to talk to her, but seeing her on the downhill side of recovery was
a nice bonus.

As expected, Lorna was the doomsayer.

“And how long will it last this time before she calls your number again and says, ‘I’m in jail. I need Mickey’?”

She said the last part with a whiny, nasal impression of Gloria Dayton. It was quite accurate but it annoyed me anyway. Then
she topped it with a little song to the tune of the Disney classic.

“M-I-C…, see you real soon. K-E-Y…, why, because you never charge me! M-O-U-T-H. Mickey Mouth… Mickey Mouth, the lawyer every—”

“Please don’t sing to me, Lorna.”

She laughed into the phone.

“I’m just making a point.”

I was smiling but trying to keep it out of my voice.

“Fine. I get it. I have to get going now.”

“Well, have a great time… Mickey Mouth.”

“You could sing that song all day and the Dodgers could lose twenty-zip to the Giants and I’d still have a great time. After
hearing the news from you, what could go wrong?”

After ending the call I went into my home office and got a cell number for Teddy Vogel, the outside leader of the Saints.
I gave him the good news and suggested that he could probably pass it on to Hard Case faster than I could. There are Road
Saints in every prison. They have a communication system the CIA and FBI might be able to learn something from. Vogel said
he’d handle it. Then he said the ten grand he gave me the month before on the side of the road near Vasquez Rocks was a worthy
investment.

“I appreciate that, Ted,” I said. “Keep me in mind next time you need an attorney.”

“Will do, Counselor.”

He clicked off and I clicked off. I then grabbed my first baseman’s glove out of the hallway closet and headed out the front
door.

Having given Earl the day off with pay, I drove myself toward downtown and Dodger Stadium. Traffic was light until I got close.
The home opener is always a sell-out, even though it is a day game on a weekday. The start of baseball season is a rite of
spring that draws downtown workers by the thousands. It’s the only sporting event in laid-back L.A. where you see men all
in stiff white shirts and ties. They’re all playing hooky. There is nothing like the start of a season, before all the one-run
losses, pitching breakdowns and missed opportunities. Before reality sets in.

I was the first one to the seats. We were three rows from the field in seats added to the stadium during the off-season. Levin
must have busted a nut buying the tickets from one of the local
brokers. At least it was probably deductible as a business entertainment expense.

The plan was for Levin to get there early as well. He had called the night before and said he wanted some private time with
me. Besides watching batting practice and checking out all the improvements the new owner had made to the stadium, we would
discuss my visit with Gloria Dayton and Raul would give me the latest update on his various investigations relating to Louis
Roulet.

But Levin never made it for BP. The other four lawyers showed up—three of them in ties, having come from court—and we missed
our chance to talk privately.

I knew the other four from some of the boat cases we had tried together. In fact, the tradition of defense pros taking in
Dodgers games together started with the boat cases. Under a wide-ranging mandate to stop drug flow to the United States, the
U.S. Coast Guard had taken to stopping suspect vessels anywhere on the oceans. When they struck gold—or, that is, cocaine—they
seized the vessels and crews. Many of the prosecutions were funneled to the U.S. District Court in Los Angeles. This resulted
in prosecutions of sometimes twelve or more defendants at a time. Every defendant got his own lawyer, most of them appointed
by the court and paid by Uncle Sugar. The cases were lucrative and steady and we had fun. Somebody had the idea of having
case meetings at Dodger Stadium. One time we all pitched in and bought a private suite for a Cubs game. We actually did talk
about the case for a few minutes during the seventh-inning stretch.

The pre-game ceremonies started and there was no sign of Levin. Hundreds of doves were released from baskets on the field
and they formed up, circled the stadium to loud cheering and then flew up and away. Shortly after, a B-2 stealth bomber buzzed
the stadium to even louder applause. That was L.A. Something for everyone and a little irony to boot.

The game started and still no Levin. I turned my cell phone on and tried to call him, even though it was hard to hear. The
crowd
was loud and boisterous, hopeful of a season that would not end in disappointment again. The call went to a message.

“Mish, where you at, man? We’re at the game and the seats are fantastic, but we got one empty one. We’re waiting on you.”

I closed the phone, looked at the others and shrugged.

“I don’t know,” I said. “He didn’t answer his cell.”

I left my phone on and put it back on my belt.

Before the first inning was over I was regretting what I had said to Lorna about not caring if the Giants drilled us 20–zip.
They built a 5–0 lead before the Dodgers even got their first bats of the season and the crowd grew frustrated early. I heard
people complaining about the prices, the renovation and the overcommercialization of the stadium. One of the lawyers, Roger
Mills, surveyed the surfaces of the stadium and remarked that the place was more crowded with corporate logos than a NASCAR
race car.

The Dodgers were able to bite into the lead, but in the fourth inning the wheels came off and the Giants chased Jeff Weaver
with a three-run shot over the centerfield wall. I used the downtime during the pitching change to brag about how fast I had
heard from the Second on the Casey case. The other lawyers were impressed, though one of them, Dan Daly, suggested that I
had only received the quick appellate review because the three judges were on my Christmas list. I remarked to Daly that he
had apparently missed the bar memo regarding juries’ distrust of lawyers with ponytails. His went halfway down his back.

It was also during this lull in the game that I heard my phone ringing. I grabbed it off my hip and flipped it open without
looking at the screen.

“Raul?”

“No, sir, this is Detective Lankford with the Glendale Police Department. Is this Michael Haller?”

“Yes,” I said.

“Do you have a moment?”

“I have a moment but I am not sure how well I’ll be able to
hear you. I’m at the Dodgers game. Can this wait until I can call you back?”

“No, sir, it can’t. Do you know a man named Raul Aaron Levin? He’s a—”

“Yes, I know him. What’s wrong?”

“I’m afraid Mr. Levin is dead, sir. He’s been the victim of a homicide in his home.”

My head dropped so low and so forward that I banged it into the back of the man seated in front of me. I then pulled back
and held one hand to one ear and pressed the phone against the other. I blanked out everything around me.

“What happened?”

“We don’t know,” Lankford said. “That’s why we are here. It looks like he was working for you recently. Is there any chance
you could come here to possibly answer some questions and assist us?”

I blew out my breath and tried to keep my voice calm and modulated.

“I’m on my way,” I said.

R
aul Levin’s body was in the back room of his bungalow a few blocks off of Brand Boulevard. The room had likely been designed
as a sunroom or maybe a TV room but Raul had turned it into his home office. Like me he’d had no need for a commercial space.
His was not a walk-in business. He wasn’t even in the yellow pages. He worked for attorneys and got jobs by word of mouth.
The five lawyers that were to join him at the baseball game were testimony to his skill and success.

The uniformed cops who had been told to expect me made me wait in the front living room until the detectives could come from
the back and talk to me. A uniformed officer stood by in the hallway in case I decided to make a mad dash for the back room
or the front door. He was in position to handle it either way. I sat there waiting and thinking about my friend.

I had decided on the drive from the stadium that I knew who had killed Raul Levin. I didn’t need to be led to the back room
to see or hear the evidence to know who the killer was. Deep down I knew that Raul had gotten too close to Louis Roulet. And
I was the one who had sent him. The only question left for me was what was I going to do about it.

After twenty minutes two detectives came from the back of the house and into the living room. I stood up and we talked while
standing. The man identified himself as Lankford, the detective who had called me. He was older, the veteran. His partner
was a
woman named Sobel. She didn’t look like she had been investigating homicides for very long.

We didn’t shake hands. They were wearing rubber gloves. They also had paper booties over their shoes. Lankford was chewing
gum.

“Okay, this is what we’ve got,” he said gruffly. “Levin was in his office, sitting in his desk chair. The chair was turned
from the desk, so he was facing the intruder. He was shot one time in the chest. Something small, looks like a twenty-two
to me but we’ll wait on the coroner for that.”

Lankford tapped his chest dead center. I could hear the hard sound of a bullet-proof vest beneath his shirt.

I corrected him. He had pronounced the name here and on the phone earlier as Levine. I said the name rhymed with heaven.

“Levin, then,” he said, getting it right. “Anyway, after the shot, he tried to get up or just fell forward to the floor. He
expired facedown on the floor. The intruder ransacked the office and we are currently at a loss to determine what he was looking
for or what he might have taken.”

“Who found him?” I asked.

“A neighbor who found his dog running loose. The intruder must have let the dog out before or after the killing. The neighbor
found it wandering around, recognized it and brought it back. She found the front door open, came in and found the body. It
didn’t look like much of a watchdog, you ask me. It’s one of those little hair balls.”

“A shih tzu,” I said.

I had seen the dog before and heard Levin talk about it, but I couldn’t remember its name. It was something like Rex or Bronco—a
name that belied the dog’s small stature.

Sobel referred to a notebook she was holding before continuing the questioning.

“We haven’t found anything that can lead us to next of kin,” she said. “Do you know if he had any family?”

“I think his mother lives back east. He was born in Detroit. Maybe she’s there. I don’t think they had much of a relationship.”

She nodded.

“We have found his time and hours calendar. He’s got your name on almost every day for the last month. Was he working on a
specific case for you?”

I nodded.

“A couple different cases. One mostly.”

“Do you care to tell us about it?” she asked.

“I have a case about to go to trial. Next month. It’s an attempted rape and murder. He was running down the evidence and helping
me to get ready.”

“You mean helping you try to backdoor the investigation, huh?” Lankford said.

I realized then that Lankford’s politeness on the phone was merely sweet talk to get me to come to the house. He would be
different now. He even seemed to be chewing his gum more aggressively than when he had first entered the room.

“Whatever you want to call it, Detective. Everybody is entitled to a defense.”

“Yeah, sure, and they’re all innocent, only it’s their parents’ fault for taking them off the tit too soon,” Lankford said.
“Whatever. This guy Levin was a cop before, right?”

He was back to mispronouncing the name.

“Yes, he was LAPD. He was a detective on a Crimes Against Persons squad but he retired after twelve years on the force. I
think it was twelve years. You’ll have to check. And it’s Levin.”

“Right, as in heaven. I guess he couldn’t hack working for the good guys, huh?”

“Depends on how you look at it, I guess.”

“Can we get back to your case?” Sobel asked. “What is the name of the defendant?”

“Louis Ross Roulet. The trial’s in Van Nuys Superior before Judge Fullbright.”

“Is he in custody?”

“No, he’s out on a bond.”

“Any animosity between Roulet and Mr. Levin?”

“Not that I know of.”

I had decided. I was going to deal with Roulet in the way I knew how. I was sticking with the plan I had concocted—with the
help of Raul Levin. Drop a depth charge into the case and make sure to get clear. I felt I owed it to my friend Mish. He would
have wanted it this way. I wouldn’t farm it out. I would handle it personally.

“Could this have been a gay thing?” Lankford asked.

“What? Why do you say that?”

“Prissy dog and then all around the house, he’s only got pictures of guys and the dog. Everywhere. On the walls, next to the
bed, on the piano.”