by Don Passman
* * *
As soon as Hannah left for the courthouse, I grabbed Sherry’s police report and looked up her personal data. I stuck the thumb drive in Hannah’s computer and thought about passwords Sherry might have used.
Let’s start with her address.
When the box came up, I typed in the numbers of her address. A line of asterisks crawled across the screen. I hit ENTER. Invalid Password.
Maybe the address backward. Invalid Password.
Phone number.
Backward.
Address with apartment number.
Slices of her Social Security number.
Shit.
I leaned back and rubbed my eyes, telling myself I’d better get some filing done before the dragon returns to her lair.
I took out the thumb drive, shut down the computer, and picked up a stack of loose papers.
* * *
Hannah got back around five o’clock, swinging her briefcase.
I said, “How’d it go?”
“Not bad. I’ll be on the news at six.”
“Wow. That’s really cool.”
She waved the air like it was no big deal, but her mouth had a little grin. I said, “Let’s go watch the news.”
She narrowed her eyes, looking annoyed that I was trying to slough off work, but I could tell she was thinking about it.
Hannah said, “I’ve got a lot to do.”
“C’mon. How often are you on television? We’ll go to one of the local bars. Maybe someone will recognize you and we’ll get a free drink.”
She set her briefcase on her desk. “Let me see what I can get done in the next half hour.”
As I grabbed a stack of papers, she said, “Harvey?”
I looked over at her.
I said, “Yeah?”
“I have to talk to you about your filing.”
Uh-oh. “What about it?”
“You’ve got to be more careful. Misfiled is worse than unfiled.”
And a penny saved is a penny earned?
Hannah said, “I found three documents out of date order. One document was in the wrong file. Fortunately, I came across it while I was looking for something else. Do you realize I could have wasted hours looking for those papers? All that a lawyer can sell is her time.”
“Sorry.”
“It shakes my confidence in your ability to do things properly.”
Truth is, I thought, I’m not exactly Mr. Anal-Retentive, so putting me in charge of filing was a little like hiring a plumber to do your heart transplant. On the other hand, I can’t afford to pay Hannah’s bills, so here I am.
I put up my hands. “I filed things in the same order as the piles.” I think.
She furrowed her brow. “I’m pretty sure things were stacked perfectly. In any event, you’ve got to double-check. I can’t afford to have paperwork out of place.”
“I’ll do my best.”
Hannah looked directly at me. “Harvey, this isn’t charity. In exchange for reducing my legal fees, I expect you to take this work seriously.”
I nodded, then went back to filing.
* * *
A little before six, Hannah and I walked into Captain Jack’s Paradise, a bar located in the great seaport of North Hollywood, about twenty miles from the nearest waterfront. The Captain’s front door had a round porthole riveted into place, to get you into that nautical mood right away. Inside, the ceiling was hung with rusty lanterns, rope fishnets with gray cork floaters, and a plastic pelican. Behind the bar was a pirate chest dripping with strings of pearls. At least the bartender wasn’t wearing an eye patch.
When we sat at the bar, I asked for fizzy water and Hannah ordered a Diet Coke. Big surprise. Ms. Control Freak doesn’t drink liquor. I grabbed a handful of nuts from the bowl, then pushed it in front of Hannah, saying, “Want some?”
She recoiled, as if I’d thrown a snake at her. Hannah shook her head vigorously and shoved the bowl back at me.
I said, “You okay?”
“I don’t eat nuts anymore. If I get started, I can’t stop.”
Guess the old Fat Hannah still lives inside.
I ate my handful of nuts, aware of Hannah watching me chew. I dusted the salt off my hands, then pushed the bowl in the opposite direction from Hannah. Her eyes followed it.
I said, “Was it hard to lose all that weight?”
“Yes. It took me almost two years.”
“Good discipline.”
“Not really. It’s … well, never mind.”
“Never mind what?”
She tightened her lips and shook her head.
I said, “How long have you had the weight off?”
“Three and a half years.”
I started to reach for the nuts, then pulled my hand back. “Has losing weight changed your life?”
Hannah crossed her legs. “Only in every single respect.”
I turned toward her on the stool. “Like…”
She ticked off each point with a finger. “I can look at a turnstile and not worry about getting through. I can fit in an airline seat, and I no longer need a seat belt extender. Men look at me differently. I get cold more easily. Hard seats hurt my ass, because I lost my padding. I can buy clothes in a normal store. In the beginning, I felt vulnerable because I didn’t have a layer of protection around me. I—”
The bartender said, “Here you go, folks.” He clunked the drinks in front of us. Hannah grabbed her Diet Coke, put her lips on the straw, and took a measured sip.
I said to the bartender, “Can you put on one of the local news stations?”
He didn’t move. “There’s a ball game at six.”
“We only need to watch for a few minutes.”
“Why?”
I almost said “Some people actually care what happens outside this bar.” I settled for “There’s a story I have to watch for work.”
The bartender twisted his mouth to the side, then said, “Only a few minutes.” He lumbered over to the TV and turned the round dial by hand.
As he walked back, I said, “Could you turn the sound up a little?” If it was any lower, it’d trigger the closed captioning.
He gave me a “Why are you being such a pain in the ass?” look, then went back and nudged up the volume.
The news logo came on. Hannah sucked down most of her soft drink. She glanced around to see if anyone else was watching the TV. No one was.
Lead story was the President’s visit to France. Then a shooting in Monterey Park.
The bartender came over. “You done yet? Some of the regulars want the game.”
“Just a few more minutes.” I fished out five dollars that I couldn’t afford to spend and gave it to him. It quickly disappeared into Captain Jack’s treasure chest.
The bartender walked away and started wiping a glass with a white towel.
Hannah said, “Let me pay for that.”
I shook my head. “It’s okay.” Keep insisting—on the third time, it’s okay for me to cave.
“No, really. I know you’re a little short.”
“It’s okay. I got it.” Once more and it’s yours.…
She nodded. “Well … thanks.”
Well … shit.
On the TV, an Asian announcer stood in front of some huge concrete steps, holding a microphone labeled KABC. Hannah sat up.
The announcer said, “The attorney for Oliver Desmond, the teenager accused of shooting and killing the son of Lakers forward Alex Hedges, was in court today, attempting to suppress key evidence. The attorney, Hannah Fisher, daughter of famed criminal lawyer Bruce Fisher, had this to say.…”
Hannah came on the screen, surrounded by bunch of hands pointing microphones at her like the rifles of a firing squad. I glanced over at her. She was staring intently at the screen. The bartender didn’t seem to notice she was on TV.
On the screen, Hannah blinked heavily and sounded very stilted. “Mr. Desmond is wrongly accused of this crime, as we will prove in court. He is
a victim of scapegoating in a case where the police were under public pressure to quickly produce a suspect. So much pressure that the prosecution is trying to introduce illegally obtained evidence. We feel deeply for the victim and his family, but Mr. Desmond is innocent.”
I glanced at Hannah wondering why you try to suppress evidence against someone who’s innocent.
Up came a still picture of Desmond. He was an African-American teenager with Mike Tyson–like tattoos over most of his face and mug-shot numbers across his chest. His eyebrows were lowered, his lower lip was plumped, and he stared at the camera like he was on the verge of spitting at it.
I said, “That’s the son of a rich guy?”
“Shhh.”
The district attorney came on the screen, standing next to Hedges, the basketball player whose son was killed. Compared to Hedges, the DA looked about four feet tall. The DA started rambling about there being no doubt of Desmond’s guilt.
When he finally shut up, the picture went back to an in-studio Hispanic announcer who said, “In other news, the city of Santa Monica has a new park, and an Inglewood man recovers his son’s pet turtle from a storm drain. Those stories and more, right after this.”
The station went to commercial. I turned to Hannah. “You were great.”
“I thought my voice sounded weird.”
“It’s always weird to hear a recording of your own voice. Everyone sounds different inside their own head. Probably the way it resonates or something.”
“I mean, didn’t I sound kind of stiff?”
Pretty much. “You were great. But I gotta say that kid doesn’t look like he comes from a rich family.”
“He’s adopted. His father is a real estate entrepreneur and a very kind man. He’s given millions to charity. Oliver’s been troubled since he was a little boy. When he was six, he climbed on the roof of the garage and wouldn’t come down until the fire department dragged him off. When he was nine, he ran away from home on his bicycle for three days. At twelve, he beat up a boy at school so badly that—”
“Okay, okay, I get it.” I took a huge gulp of my fizzy water.
Hannah said, “Everyone’s entitled to a defense, no matter who you are. And I give Oliver’s parents a lot of credit. They’ve stood by him through everything.”
I wondered if he’d do a little better if he took the consequences of what he did, but I guess no one’s interested in my parental advice. I polished off the drink and fought the urge to burp up the bubblies I’d just gulped down. “Won’t the jury kinda hate him?”
She nodded. “Yes. That’s the challenge here. If I get him off, I’ve really done something.”
Like let a killer out on the street? “Why did the newsman mention your father?”
Hannah smiled. “My dad’s also a criminal lawyer. He’s the reason I decided to practice law. You remember the Mulholland stalker?”
“The guy that chopped up smooching kids while they were parked up on Mulholland?”
“Yes.”
“I remember all right. My parents told me every detail, trying to scare me away from parking up there. Worked pretty well. I took my dates for a romantic outing in the Costco parking lot.”
“Dad got him off. Despite all the publicity. Despite all the cries for his blood.”
I wondered if I should ask whether he was guilty. Not much upside in that question. “Your dad must be amazing.”
She beamed. “He’s the best. When I was about ten, Mom took me to court to watch him. He has this deep, resonant voice. He looks directly at whoever he’s addressing. Puts his whole focus on them.”
I nodded. Why’s that sound so familiar? Ah. Michael Nadler.
Hannah swiveled toward me on her stool.
Have we ever sat this close to each other?
She said, “I still remember sitting in that courtroom. I saw how his clients looked at him. They knew he was the only thing between them and jail. I saw the respect he got from the judge. I saw how the jury watched him. I knew right then I was going to be a criminal lawyer. I never once wavered from that decision.”
I took my black plastic straw out of my drink and rolled it between my fingers. “I was ten when I decided to be a magician.” Well, actually, I was torn between being a magician, an astronaut, and a rock star.
“Why magic?”
I scooched a little closer to her. She smelled like vanilla. Was that perfume? Shampoo?
I said, “My mother took me to something called the Renaissance Pleasure Fair. It’s this medieval festival that goes on for a few weeks every year. Mostly it’s a bunch of booths selling quill pens and harlequin hats and other crap from the Middle Ages. But they’ve also got entertainers walking around, like minstrels playing lutes, white-faced mimes, and beanbag jugglers. So while we’re wandering around, I see this guy wearing one of those poofy red Rembrandt hats.”
Hannah picked up her glass and tried to get another sip of Diet Coke. The straw sucked air. She set it down and ran her tongue over her lips.
“This guy had a little table in front of him. It was covered in black velvet with long gold fringe. He put green and red balls on the table, covered them with clay cups, and made them change places. He took out a blue metal bucket that was painted with red stars, then pulled coins from the air and clinked them into the bucket. He finished by putting an egg into a multicolored patchwork bag, then taking out a live chicken that was flapping its wings.”
Hannah leaned her elbow on the bar, put her chin on her palm.
I said, “I wouldn’t let Mom take me away from the magician. I watched his show over and over. I couldn’t figure out how he did it. After an hour, Mom gave up and left me there. When she came back, I insisted on seeing it just one more time. The magician, who’d noticed this little twerp watching him, asked if I wanted to learn a trick. I practically jumped in his arms.”
She smiled. “Do you remember which trick it was?”
I gave her an “Are you kidding?” look.
Hannah said, “Show me.”
I reached into my pocket and took out one of the vintage fifty-cent pieces. “He used a quarter, because my hands were so small. It went like this.” I did a simple palm, pretended to drop the coin in my other hand, then opened my fingers to show it was empty.
She shook her head, smiling. “It’s in your other hand.”
“Well, it amazed a ten-year-old.” I made a move that disguised my dropping the coin into my shirt pocket. Then I showed her both hands were empty.
She widened her eyes.
I said, “I’ve improved since then.”
She smiled. “That was cool. How’d you learn more tricks?”
“I bugged my parents for months, until they got me a magic set for my birthday. I showed my appreciation by making them watch the same magic show six hundred times.”
“What kind of tricks were in the kit?”
“The usual joke-shop cheapos. A little slide drawer that makes coins disappear. A red plastic thing that looks like a chess bishop but opens at the top. You put in a black ball, and when you open it a second time, it’s gone. I also got these little twisted metal puzzles that came apart if you knew the secret. They weren’t really magic, but they came with the set. I could never get them apart.”
Hannah wriggled forward in her seat. “Show me another trick.”
I got another coin and held it up in my fingers. Then I pulled out a silk handkerchief, draped it over the coin, and let her feel it was really inside. I twisted the handkerchief around it, then pulled the coin through the fabric. She squinted skeptically. I opened the handkerchief to show there was no hole in the middle.
She started clapping. “You’re good.”
The bartender appeared. “You done with the news show?”
I said, “Not quite.” I figured we’d only gotten about four dollars’ worth.
When he walked away, I said, “This is just the small stuff. I’ve invented some big tricks that’ll blow away the professionals. I’ve
got one being built right now. All I need is a break, and I’m on my way.”
She nodded. “You’ll do it.”
I felt my face flush. “Thanks.”
Hannah upended her glass, shook out an ice cube, and started crunching it in her mouth. She said, “I hope Oliver Desmond’s case will be my big break.”
“How good is his case?”
Hannah swallowed the ice. “It’s got problems. The cops claim they stopped him for driving without headlights, then found incriminating evidence.”
“How incriminating?”
“Incriminating enough.”
“Like the murder weapon?”
She shifted in her chair. “I can’t say what it was.”
Bull’s-eye! I said, “How can you knock out the evidence?”
“I think they really stopped him for DWB.”
“What’s DWB?”
“Driving While Black. He was in an expensive car in an upscale neighborhood late at night. If I can show they had no probable cause to stop the car, then nothing they found can be used as evidence at the trial.”
“How do you prove they didn’t have the right to stop him?”
“He says his lights were on, so at the moment, it’s his word against the cops’.”
I nodded. “He doesn’t exactly look like the best witness.”
“I would never put a murder defendant on the stand, even if he was a church bishop. I’m trying to figure another angle.”
I grabbed some peanuts, felt her eyes on me, and put them back. “How’s it going?”
Hannah said, “I called my father and kicked around some strategies. He says it’s not important whether or not I win. The main thing is that the publicity will build my reputation.”
There’s a fine view of the American legal system.
Hannah said, “Dad coached me on how to talk to the press. He even made a few calls to make sure I got reporters down there.”
Aha. Maybe the announcer’s mention of Dad wasn’t a coincidence.…
Hannah leaned forward. “He may be right about the publicity being more important than the case, but”—she narrowed her eyes—“I’m going to kick the DA’s ass.”
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
After the bar, I left Hannah to her ass-kicking and drove toward Herb Gold’s warehouse in Valencia. Herb is the top builder of magical illusions in the world. Fortunately, he keeps rock-star hours, opening at noon and running until eight or nine, or whenever he feels like knocking off. His warehouse is about forty-five minutes from my apartment on a good day.
