The Lincoln Lawyer: A Novel (7 page)

“He looks like a babe in the woods.”

“He’s a virgin?”

“Never been inside the iron house.”

“Well, did he do it?”

She always asked the irrelevant question. It didn’t matter in terms of the strategy of the case whether the defendant “did
it” or not. What mattered was the evidence against him—the proof—and if and how it could be neutralized. My job was to bury
the proof, to color the proof a shade of gray. Gray was the color of reasonable doubt.

But the question of did he or didn’t he always seemed to matter to her.

“Who knows, Lorna? That’s not the question. The question is whether or not he’s a paying customer. The answer is, I think
so.”

“Well, let me know if you need any—oh, there’s one other thing.”

“What?”

“Sticks called and said he owes you four hundred dollars next time he sees you.”

“Yeah, he does.”

“You’re doing pretty good today.”

“I’m not complaining.”

We said our good-byes on a friendly note, the dispute over Gloria Dayton seemingly forgotten for the moment. Probably the
security that comes with knowing money is coming in and a high-paying client is on the hook made Lorna feel a bit better about
my working some cases for free. I wondered, though, if she’d have minded so much if I was defending a drug dealer for free
instead of a prostitute. Lorna and I had shared a short and sweet marriage, with both of us quickly finding out that we had
moved too quickly while rebounding from divorces. We ended it, remained friends, and she continued to work with me, not for
me. The only time I felt uncomfortable about the arrangement was when she acted like a wife again and second-guessed my choice
of client and who and what I charged or didn’t charge.

Feeling confident in the way I had handled Lorna, I called the DA’s office in Van Nuys next. I asked for Margaret McPherson
and caught her eating at her desk.

“I just wanted to say I’m sorry about this morning. I know you wanted the case.”

“Well, you probably need it more than me. He must be a paying customer if he’s got C. C. Dobbs carrying the roll behind him.”

By that she was referring to a roll of toilet paper. High-priced family lawyers were usually seen by prosecutors as nothing
more than ass wipers for the rich and famous.

“Yeah, I could use one like him—the paying client, not the wiper. It’s been a while since I had a franchise.”

“Well, you didn’t get as lucky a few minutes ago,” she whispered into the phone. “The case was reassigned to Ted Minton.”

“Never heard of him.”

“He’s one of Smithson’s young guns. Just brought him in from downtown, where he was filing simple possession cases. He didn’t
see the inside of a courtroom until he came up here.”

John Smithson was the ambitious head deputy in charge of the Van Nuys Division. He was a better politician than a prosecutor
and had parlayed that skill into a quick climb over other more experienced deputies to the division chief’s post. Maggie McPherson
was among those he’d passed by. Once he was in the slot, he started building a staff of young prosecutors who did not feel
slighted and were loyal to him for giving them a shot.

“This guy’s never been in court?” I asked, not understanding how going up against a trial rookie could be unlucky, as Maggie
had indicated.

“He’s had a few trials up here but always with a babysitter. Roulet will be his first time flying solo. Smithson thinks he’s
giving him a slam dunk.”

I imagined her sitting in her cubicle, probably not far from where my new opponent was sitting in his.

“I don’t get it, Mags. If this guy’s green, why wasn’t I lucky?”

“Because these guys Smithson picks are all cracked out of the same mold. They’re arrogant assholes. They think they can do
no wrong and what’s more…”

She lowered her voice even more.

“They don’t play fair. And the word on Minton is that he’s a cheater. Watch yourself, Haller. Better yet, watch him.”

“Well, thanks for the heads-up.”

But she wasn’t finished.

“A lot of these new people just don’t get it. They don’t see it as a calling. To them it’s not about justice. It’s just a
game—a batting average. They like to keep score and to see how far it will get them in the office. In fact, they’re all just
like junior Smithsons.”

A calling. It was her sense of calling that ultimately cost us our
marriage. On an intellectual level she could deal with being married to a man who worked the other side of the aisle. But
when it came down to the reality of what we did, we were lucky to have lasted the eight years we had managed.
Honey, how was your day? Oh, I got a guy who murdered his roommate with an ice pick a seven-year deal. And you? Oh, I put
a guy away for five years because he stole a car stereo to feed his habit…
It just didn’t work. Four years in, a daughter arrived, but through no fault of her own, she only kept us going another four
years.

Still, I didn’t regret a thing about it. I cherished my daughter. She was the only thing that was really good about my life,
that I could be proud of. I think deep down, the reason I didn’t see her enough—that I was chasing cases instead of her—was
because I felt unworthy of her. Her mother was a hero. She put bad people in jail. What could I tell her was good and holy
about what I did, when I had long ago lost the thread of it myself?

“Hey, Haller, are you there?”

“Yeah, Mags, I’m here. What are you eating today?”

“Just the oriental salad from downstairs. Nothing special. Where are you?”

“Heading downtown. Listen, tell Hayley I’ll see her this Saturday. I’ll make a plan. We’ll do something special.”

“You really mean that? I don’t want to get her hopes up.”

I felt something lift inside me, the idea that my daughter would get her hopes up about seeing me. The one thing Maggie never
did was run me down with Hayley. She wasn’t the kind that would do that. I always admired that.

“Yes, I’m sure,” I said.

“Great, I’ll tell her. Let me know when you’re coming or if I can drop her off.”

“Okay.”

I hesitated. I wanted to talk to her longer but there was nothing else to say. I finally said good-bye and closed the phone.
In a few minutes we broke free of the bottleneck. I looked out the window and saw no accident. I saw nobody with a flat tire
and no highway patrol cruiser parked on the shoulder. I saw nothing that explained
what had caused the traffic tie-up. It was often like that. Freeway traffic in Los Angeles was as mysterious as marriage.
It moved and flowed, then stalled and stopped for no easily explainable reason.

I am from a family of attorneys. My father, my half brother, a niece and a nephew. My father was a famous lawyer in a time
when there was no cable television and no Court TV. He was the dean of criminal law in L.A. for almost three decades. From
Mickey Cohen to the Manson girls, his clients always made the headlines. I was just an afterthought in his life, a surprise
visitor to his second marriage to a B-level movie actress known for her exotic Latin looks but not her acting skills. The
mix gave me my black Irish looks. My father was old when I came, so he was gone before I was old enough to really know him
or talk to him about the calling of the law. He only left me his name. Mickey Haller, the legal legend. It still opened doors.

But my older brother—the half brother from the first marriage—told me that my father used to talk to him about the practice
of law and criminal defense. He used to say he would defend the devil himself just as long as he could cover the fee. The
only big-time case and client he ever turned down was Sirhan Sirhan. He told my brother that he had liked Bobby Kennedy too
much to defend his killer, no matter how much he believed in the ideal that the accused deserved the best and most vigorous
defense possible.

Growing up I read all the books about my father and his cases. I admired the skill and vigor and strategies he brought to
the defense table. He was damn good and it made me proud to carry his name. But the law was different now. It was grayer.
Ideals had long been downgraded to notions. Notions were optional.

My cell phone rang and I checked the screen before answering.

“What’s up, Val?”

“We’re getting him out. They already took him back to the jail and we’re processing him out now.”

“Dobbs went with the bond?”

“You got it.”

I could hear the delight in his voice.

“Don’t be so giddy. You sure he’s not a runner?”

“I’m never sure. I’m going to make him wear a bracelet. I lose him, I lose my house.”

I realized that what I had taken as delight at the windfall that a million-dollar bond would bring to Valenzuela was actually
nervous energy. Valenzuela would be taut as a wire until this one was over, one way or the other. Even if the court had not
ordered it, Valenzuela was going to put an electronic tracking bracelet on Roulet’s ankle. He was taking no chances with this
guy.

“Where’s Dobbs?”

“Back at my office, waiting. I’ll bring Roulet over as soon as he’s out. Shouldn’t be too much longer.”

“Is Maisy over there?”

“Yeah, she’s there.”

“Okay, I’m going to call over.”

I ended the call and hit the speed-dial combo for Liberty Bail Bonds. Valenzuela’s receptionist and assistant answered.

“Maisy, it’s Mick. Can you put Mr. Dobbs on the line?”

“Sure thing, Mick.”

A few seconds later Dobbs got on the line. He seemed put out by something. Just in the way he said, “This is Cecil Dobbs.”

“This is Mickey Haller. How is it going over there?”

“Well, if you consider I am letting my duties to other clients slide while I sit here and read year-old magazines, not good.”

“You don’t carry a cell phone to do business?”

“I do. But that’s not the point. My clients aren’t cell phone people. They’re face-to-face people.”

“I see. Well, the good news is, I hear our boy is about to be released.”

“Our boy?”

“Mr. Roulet. Valenzuela should have him out inside the hour. I am about to go into a client conference, but as I said before,
I am free in the afternoon. Do you want to meet to go over the case with our mutual client or do you want me to take it from
here?”

“No, Mrs. Windsor has insisted that I monitor this closely. In fact, she may choose to be there as well.”

“I don’t mind the meet-and-greet with Mrs. Windsor, but when it comes down to talking about the case, it’s just going to be
the defense team. That can include you but not the mother. Okay?”

“I understand. Let’s say four o’clock at my office. I will have Louis there.”

“I’ll be there.”

“My firm employs a crack investigator. I’ll ask him to join us.”

“That won’t be necessary, Cecil. I have my own and he’s already on the job. We’ll see you at four.”

I ended the call before Dobbs could start a debate about which investigator to use. I had to be careful that Dobbs didn’t
control the investigation, preparation and strategy of the case. Monitoring was one thing. But I was Louis Roulet’s attorney
now. Not him.

When I called Raul Levin next, he told me he was already on his way to the LAPD Van Nuys Division to pick up a copy of the
arrest report.

“Just like that?” I asked.

“No, not just like that. In a way, you could say it took me twenty years to get this report.”

I understood. Levin’s connections, procured over time and experience, traded over trust and favors, had come through for him.
No wonder he charged five hundred dollars a day when he could get it. I told him about the meeting at four and he said he
would be there and would be ready to furnish us with the law enforcement view of the case.

The Lincoln pulled to a stop when I closed the phone. We were in front of the Twin Towers jail facility. It wasn’t even ten
years old but the smog was beginning to permanently stain its sand-colored walls a dreary gray. It was a sad and forbidding
place that I spent too much time in. I opened the car door and got out to go inside once again.

T
here was an attorney’s check-in window that allowed me to bypass the long line of visitors waiting to get in to see loved
ones incarcerated in one of the towers. When I told the window deputy whom I wanted to see, he tapped the name into the computer
and never said anything about Gloria Dayton being in medical and unavailable. He printed out a visitor’s pass which he slid
into the plastic frame of a clip-on badge and told me to put it on and wear it at all times in the jail. He then told me to
step away from the window and wait for an attorney escort.

“It will be a few minutes,” he said.

I knew from prior experience that my cell phone did not get a signal inside the jail and that if I stepped outside to use
it, I might miss my escort and then have to go through the whole sign-in process again. So I stayed put and watched the faces
of the people who came to visit those being held inside. Most were black and brown. Most had the look of routine on their
faces. They all probably knew the ropes here much better than I.

After twenty minutes a large woman in a deputy’s uniform came into the waiting area and collected me. I knew that she had
not gotten into the sheriff’s department with her current dimensions. She was at least a hundred pounds overweight and seemed
to struggle just to carry it while walking. But I also knew that once somebody was in, it was hard to get them out. About
the best this
one could do if there was a jail break was lean up against a door to keep it closed.

“Sorry it took so long,” she told me as we waited between the double steel doors of a mantrap in the women’s tower. “I had
to go find her, make sure we still had her.”

She signaled that everything was all right to a camera above the next door and its lock clacked open. She pushed through.

“She was up in medical getting fixed up,” she said.

“Fixed up?”

I wasn’t aware of the jail having a drug-treatment program that included “fixing up” addicts.