The Lincoln Lawyer: A Novel (4 page)

“So you had it all along,” I said as I wrote. “What if I had backed down to five? What would you have done then?”

Vogel smiled. He was missing one of his front teeth on the bottom. Had to have been a fight at the club. He patted the other
side of his vest.

“I got another envelope with five in it right here, Counselor,” he said. “I was ready for you.”

“Damn, now I feel bad, leaving you with money in your pocket.”

I tore out his copy of the receipt and handed it out the window.

“I receipted it to Casey. He’s the client.”

“Fine with me.”

He took the receipt and dropped his arm off the window sill as he stood up straight. The car returned to a normal level. I
wanted to ask him where the money came from, which of the Saints’ criminal enterprises had earned it, whether a hundred girls
had danced a hundred hours for him to pay me, but that was a question I was better off not knowing the answer to. I watched
Vogel saunter back to his Harley and struggle to swing a trash can–thick leg over the seat. For the first time I noticed the
double shocks on the back wheel. I told Earl to get back on the freeway and get going to Van Nuys, where I now needed to make
a stop at the bank before hitting the courthouse to meet my new client.

As we drove I opened the envelope and counted out the money, twenties, fifties and hundred-dollar bills. It was all there.
The tank was refilled and I was good to go with Harold Casey. I would go to trial and teach his young prosecutor a lesson.
I would win, if not in trial, then certainly on appeal. Casey would return to the family and work of the Road Saints. His
guilt in the crime he was charged with was not something I even considered as I filled out a deposit slip for my client fees
account.

“Mr. Haller?” Earl said after a while.

“What, Earl?”

“That man you told him was coming in from New York to be the expert? Will I be picking him up at the airport?”

I shook my head.

“There is no expert coming in from New York, Earl. The best camera and photo experts in the world are right here in Hollywood.”

Now Earl nodded and his eyes held mine for a moment in the rearview mirror. Then he looked back at the road ahead.

“I see,” he said, nodding again.

And I nodded to myself. No hesitation in what I had done or said. That was my job. That was how it worked. After fifteen years
of practicing law I had come to think of it in very simple terms. The law was a large, rusting machine that sucked up people
and lives and money. I was just a mechanic. I had become expert at going into the machine and fixing things and extracting
what I needed from it in return.

There was nothing about the law that I cherished anymore. The law school notions about the virtue of the adversarial system,
of the system’s checks and balances, of the search for truth, had long since eroded like the faces of statues from other civilizations.
The law was not about truth. It was about negotiation, amelioration, manipulation. I didn’t deal in guilt and innocence, because
everybody was guilty. Of something. But it didn’t matter, because every case I took on was a house built on a foundation poured
by overworked and underpaid laborers. They cut corners. They made mistakes. And then they painted over the mistakes with lies.
My job was to peel away the paint and find the cracks. To work my fingers and tools into those cracks and widen them. To make
them so big that either the house fell down or, failing that, my client slipped through.

Much of society thought of me as the devil but they were wrong. I was a greasy angel. I was the true road saint. I was needed
and wanted. By both sides. I was the oil in the machine. I allowed the gears to crank and turn. I helped keep the engine of
the system running.

But all of that would change with the Roulet case. For me. For him. And certainly for Jesus Menendez.

L
ouis Ross Roulet was in a holding tank with seven other men who had made the half-block bus ride from the Van Nuys jail to
the Van Nuys courthouse. There were only two white men in the cell and they sat next to each other on a bench while the six
black men took the other side of the cell. It was a form of Darwinian segregation. They were all strangers but there was strength
in numbers.

Since Roulet supposedly came from Beverly Hills money, I looked at the two white men and it was easy to choose between them.
One was rail thin with the desperate wet eyes of a hype who was long past fix time. The other looked like the proverbial deer
in the headlights. I chose him.

“Mr. Roulet?” I said, pronouncing the name the way Valenzuela had told me to.

The deer nodded. I signaled him over to the bars so I could talk quietly.

“My name is Michael Haller. People call me Mickey. I will be representing you during your first appearance today.”

We were in the holding area behind the arraignment court, where attorneys are routinely allowed access to confer with clients
before court begins. There is a blue line painted on the floor outside the cells. The three-foot line. I had to keep that
distance from my client.

Roulet grasped the bars in front of me. Like the others in the cage, he had on ankle, wrist and belly chains. They wouldn’t
come off until he was taken into the courtroom. He was in his early thirties
and, though at least six feet tall and 180 pounds, he seemed slight. Jail will do that to you. His eyes were pale blue and
it was rare for me to see the kind of panic that was so clearly set in them. Most of the time my clients have been in lockup
before and they have the stone-cold look of the predator. It’s how they get by in jail.

But Roulet was different. He looked like prey. He was scared and he didn’t care who saw it and knew it.

“This is a setup,” he said urgently and loudly. “You have to get me out of here. I made a mistake with that woman, that’s
all. She’s trying to set me up and—”

I put my hands up to stop him.

“Be careful what you say in here,” I said in a low voice. “In fact, be careful what you say until we get you out of here and
can talk in private.”

He looked around, seemingly not understanding.

“You never know who is listening,” I said. “And you never know who will say he heard you say something, even if you didn’t
say anything. Best thing is to not talk about the case at all. You understand? Best thing is not to talk to anyone about anything,
period.”

He nodded and I signaled him down to the bench next to the bars. There was a bench against the opposite wall and I sat down.

“I am really here just to meet you and tell you who I am,” I said. “We’ll talk about the case after we get you out. I already
spoke to your family lawyer, Mr. Dobbs, out there and we will tell the judge that we are prepared to post bail. Do I have
all of that right?”

I opened a leather Mont Blanc folder and prepared to take notes on a legal pad. Roulet nodded. He was learning.

“Good,” I said. “Tell me about yourself. How old you are, whether you’re married, what ties you have to the community.”

“Um, I’m thirty-two. I’ve lived here my whole life—even went to school here. UCLA. Not married. No kids. I work—”

“Divorced?”

“No, never married. I work for my family’s business. Windsor Residential Estates. It’s named after my mother’s second husband.
It’s real estate. We sell real estate.”

I was writing notes. Without looking up at him, I quietly asked, “How much money did you make last year?”

When Roulet didn’t answer I looked up at him.

“Why do you need to know that?” he asked.

“Because I am going to get you out of here before the sun goes down today. To do that, I need to know everything about your
standing in the community. That includes your financial standing.”

“I don’t know exactly what I made. A lot of it was shares in the company.”

“You didn’t file taxes?”

Roulet looked over his shoulder at the others in the cell and then whispered his answer.

“Yes, I did. On that my income was a quarter million.”

“But what you’re saying is that with the shares you earned in the company you really made more.”

“Right.”

One of Roulet’s cellmates came up to the bars next to him. The other white man. He had an agitated manner, his hands in constant
motion, moving from hips to pockets to each other in desperate grasps.

“Hey, man, I need a lawyer, too. You got a card?”

“Not for you, pal. They’ll have a lawyer out there for you.”

I looked back at Roulet and waited a moment for the hype to move away. He didn’t. I looked back at him.

“Look, this is private. Could you leave us alone?”

The hype made some kind of motion with his hands and shuffled back to the corner he had come from. I looked back at Roulet.

“What about charitable organizations?” I asked.

“What do you mean?” Roulet responded.

“Are you involved in any charities? Do you give to any charities?”

“Yeah, the company does. We give to Make a Wish and a runaway shelter in Hollywood. I think it’s called My Friend’s Place
or something like that.”

“Okay, good.”

“Are you going to get me out?”

“I’m going to try. You’ve got some heavy charges on you—I checked before coming back here—and I have a feeling the DA is going
to request no bail, but this is good stuff. I can work with it.”

I indicated my notes.

“No bail?” he said in a loud, panicked voice.

The others in the cell looked in his direction because what he had said was their collective nightmare. No bail.

“Calm down,” I said. “I said that is what she is going to go for. I didn’t say she would get it. When was the last time you
were arrested?”

I always threw that in out of the blue so I could watch their eyes and see if there was going to be a surprise thrown at me
in court.

“Never. I’ve never been arrested. This whole thing is—”

“I know, I know, but we don’t want to talk about that here, remember?”

He nodded. I looked at my watch. Court was about to start and I still needed to talk to Maggie McFierce.

“I’m going to go now,” I said. “I’ll see you out there in a few minutes and we’ll see about getting you out of here. When
we are out there, don’t say anything until you check with me. If the judge asks you how you are doing, you check with me.
Okay?”

“Well, don’t I say ‘not guilty’ to the charges?”

“No, they’re not going to even ask you that. Today all they do is read you the charges, talk about bail and set a date for
an arraignment. That’s when we say ‘not guilty.’ So today you say nothing. No outbursts, nothing. Got that?”

He nodded and frowned.

“Are you going to be all right, Louis?”

He nodded glumly.

“Just so you know,” I said. “I charge twenty-five hundred dollars for a first appearance and bail hearing like this. Is that
going to be a problem?”

He shook his head no. I liked that he wasn’t talking. Most of my clients talk way too much. Usually they talk themselves right
into prison.

“Good. We can talk about the rest of it after you are out of here and we can get together in private.”

I closed my leather folder, hoping he had noticed it and was impressed, then stood up.

“One last thing,” I said. “Why’d you pick me? There’s a lot of lawyers out there, why me?”

It was a question that didn’t matter to our relationship but I wanted to test Valenzuela’s veracity.

Roulet shrugged.

“I don’t know,” he said. “I remembered your name from something I read in the paper.”

“What did you read about me?”

“It was a story about a case where the evidence got thrown out against some guy. I think it was drugs or something. You won
the case because they had no evidence after that.”

“The Hendricks case?”

It was the only one I could think of that had made the papers in recent months. Hendricks was another Road Saint client and
the sheriff’s department had put a GPS bug on his Harley to track his deliveries. Doing that on public roads was fine. But
when he parked his bike in the kitchen of his home at night, that bug constituted unlawful entry by the cops. The case was
tossed by a judge during the preliminary hearing. It made a decent splash in the
Times
.

“I can’t remember the name of the client,” Roulet said. “I just remembered your name. Your last name, actually. When I called
the bail bondsman today I gave him the name Haller and asked him to get you and to call my own attorney. Why?”

“No reason. Just curious. I appreciate the call. I’ll see you in the courtroom.”

I put the differences between what Roulet had said about my hiring and what Valenzuela had told me into the bank for later
consideration and made my way back into the arraignment court. I saw Maggie McFierce sitting at one end of the prosecution
table. She was there along with five other prosecutors. The table was large and L-shaped so it could accommodate an endlessly
revolving number
of lawyers who could sit and still face the bench. A prosecutor assigned to the courtroom handled most of the routine appearances
and arraignments that were paraded through each day. But special cases brought the big guns out of the district attorney’s
office on the second floor of the courthouse next door. TV cameras did that, too.

As I stepped through the bar I saw a man setting up a video camera on a tripod next to the bailiff’s desk. There was no network
symbol on the camera or the man’s clothes. The man was a freelancer who had gotten wind of the case and would shoot the hearing
and then try to sell it to one of the local stations whose news director needed a thirty-second story. When I had checked
with the bailiff earlier about Roulet’s place on the calendar, he told me the judge had already authorized the filming.

I walked up to my ex-wife from behind and bent down to whisper into her ear. She was looking at photographs in a file. She
was wearing a navy suit with a thin gray stripe. Her raven-colored hair was tied back with a matching gray ribbon. I loved
her hair when it was back like that.