The Lincoln Lawyer Collection

by Connelly, Michael

  The words sounded hollow as I said them. She didn’t respond. I had probably confused her because I had confused myself.

  “Okay?” I asked.

  “Okay.”

  “Good. I have to make some more calls, Lorna.”

  “Will you tell me when you find out about the services?”

  “I will.”

  After closing my phone I decided to take a break before making another call. I thought about Lorna’s last question and realized I might be the one organizing the services she asked about. Unless an old woman in Detroit who had disowned Raul Levin twenty-five years ago stepped up to the plate.

  I pushed my glass to the edge of the bar gutter and said to the bartender, “Gimme a Guinness and give yourself one, too.”

  I decided it was time to slow down and one way was to drink Guinness, since it took so long to fill a glass out of the tap. When the bartender finally brought it to me I saw that he had etched a harp in the foam with the tap nozzle. An angel’s harp. I hoisted the glass before drinking from it.

  “God bless the dead,” I said.

  “God bless the dead,” the bartender said.

  I drank heavily from the glass and the thick ale was like mortar I was sending down to hold the bricks together inside. All at once I felt like crying. But then my phone rang. I grabbed it up without looking at the screen and said hello. The alcohol had bent my voice into an unrecognizable shape.

  “Is this Mick?” a voice asked.

  “Yeah, who’s this?”

  “It’s Louis. I just heard the news about Raul. I’m so sorry, man.”

  I pulled the phone away from my ear as if it were a snake about to bite me. I pulled my arm back, ready to throw it at the mirror behind the bar, where I saw my own reflection. Then I stopped and brought it back.

  “Yeah, motherfucker, how did you — ”

  I broke off and started laughing as I realized what I had just called him and what Raul Levin’s theory about Roulet had been.

  “Excuse me,” Roulet said. “Are you drinking?”

  “You’re damn right I’m drinking,” I said. “How the fuck do you already know what happened to Mish?”

  “If by Mish you mean Mr. Levin, I just got a call from the Glendale police. A detective said she wanted to speak to me about him.”

  That answer squeezed at least two of the vodkas right out of my liver. I straightened up on my stool.

  “Sobel? Is that who called?”

  “Yeah, I think so. She said she got my name from you. She said it would be routine questions. She’s coming here.”

  “Where?”

  “The office.”

  I thought about it for a moment but didn’t think Sobel was in any kind of danger, even if she came without Lankford. Roulet wouldn’t try anything with a cop, especially in his own office. My greater concern was that somehow Sobel and Lankford were already onto Roulet and I would be robbed of my chance to personally avenge Raul Levin and Jesus Menendez. Had Roulet left a fingerprint behind? Had a neighbor seen him go into Levin’s house?

  “That’s all she said?”

  “Yes. She said they were talking to all of his recent clients and I was the most recent.”

  “Don’t talk to them.”

  “You sure?”

  “Not without your lawyer present.”

  “Won’t they get suspicious if I don’t talk to them, like give them an alibi or something?”

  “It doesn’t matter. They don’t talk to you unless I give my permission. And I’m not giving it.”

  I gripped my free hand into a fist. I couldn’t stand the idea of giving legal advice to the man I was sure had killed my friend that very morning.

  “Okay,” Roulet said. “I’ll send her on her way.”

  “Where were you this morning?”

  “Me? I was here at the office. Why?”

  “Did anybody see you?”

  “Well, Robin came in at ten. Not before that.”

  I pictured the woman with the hair cut like a scythe. I didn’t know what to tell Roulet because I didn’t know what the time of death was. I didn’t want to mention anything about the tracking bracelet he supposedly had on his ankle.

  “Call me after Detective Sobel leaves. And remember, no matter what she or her partner says to you, do not talk to them. They can lie to you as much as they want. And they all do. Consider anything they tell you to be a lie. They’re just trying to trick you into talking to them. If they tell you I said it was okay to talk, that is a lie. Pick up the phone and call me, I will tell them to get lost.”

  “All right, Mick. That’s how I’ll play it. Thanks.”

  He ended the call. I closed my phone and dropped it on the bar like it was something dirty and discarded.

  “Yeah, don’t mention it,” I said.

  I drained a good quarter of my pint, then picked up the phone again. Using speed dial I called Fernando Valenzuela’s cell number. He was at home, having just gotten in from the Dodgers game. That meant that he had left early to beat the traffic. Typical L.A. fan.

  “Do you still have a tracking bracelet on Roulet?”

  “Yeah, he’s got it.”

  “How’s it work? Can you track where he’s been or only where he’s at?”

  “It’s global positioning. It sends up a signal. You can track it backwards to tell where somebody’s been.”

  “You got it there or is it at the office?”

  “It’s on my laptop, man. What’s up?”

  “I want to see where he’s been today.”

  “Well, let me boot it up. Hold on.”

  I held on, finished my Guinness and had the bartender start filling another before Valenzuela had his laptop fired up.

  “Where’re you at, Mick?”

  “Four Green Fields.”

  “Anything wrong?”

  “Yeah, something’s wrong. Do you have it up or what?”

  “Yeah, I’m looking at it right here. How far back do you want to check?”

  “Start at this morning.”

  “Okay. He, uh . . . he hasn’t done much today. I track it from his home to his office at eight. Looks like he took a little trip nearby — a couple blocks, probably for lunch — and then back to the office. He’s still there.”

  I thought about this for a few moments. The bartender delivered my next pint.

  “Val, how do you get that thing off your ankle?”

  “You mean if you were him? You don’t. You can’t. It bolts on and the little wrench you use is unique. It’s like a key. I got the only one.”

  “You’re sure about that?”

  “I’m sure. I got it right here on my key chain, man.”

  “No copies — like from the manufacturer?”

  “Not supposed to be. Besides, it doesn’t matter. If the ring is broken — like even if he did open it — I get an alarm on the system. It also has what’s called a ‘mass detector.’ Once I put that baby around his ankle, I get an alarm on the computer the moment it reads that there is nothing there. That didn’t happen, Mick. So you are talking about a saw being the only way. Cut off the leg, leave the bracelet on the ankle. That’s the only way.”

  I drank the top off my new beer. The bartender hadn’t bothered with any artwork this time.

  “What about the battery? What if the battery’s dead, you lose the signal?”

  “No, Mick. I got that covered, too. He’s got a charger and a receptacle on the bracelet. Every few days he’s got to plug it in for a couple hours to juice it. You know, while he’s at his desk or something or taking a nap. If the battery goes below twenty percent I get an alarm on my computer and I call him and say plug it in. If he doesn’t do it then, I get another alarm at fifteen percent, and then at ten percent he starts beeping and he’s got no way to take it off or turn it off. Doesn’t make for a good getaway. And that last ten percent still gives me five hours of tracking. I can find him in five hours, no sweat.”

  “Okay, okay.”

&n
bsp; I was convinced by the science.

  “What’s going on?”

  I told him about Levin and told him that the police would likely have to check out Roulet, and the ankle bracelet and tracking system would likely be our client’s alibi. Valenzuela was stunned by the news. He might not have been as close to Levin as I had been, but he had known him just as long.

  “What do you think happened, Mick?” he asked me.

  I knew that he was asking if I thought Roulet was the killer or somehow behind the killing. Valenzuela was not privy to all that I knew or that Levin had found out.

  “I don’t know what to think,” I said. “But you should watch yourself with this guy.”

  “And you watch yourself.”

  “I will.”

  I closed the phone, wondering if there was something Valenzuela didn’t know. If Roulet had somehow found a way to take the ankle bracelet off or to subvert the tracking system. I was convinced by the science of it but not the human side of it. There are always human flaws.

  The bartender sauntered over to my spot at the bar.

  “Hey, buddy, did you lose your car keys?” he said.

  I looked around to make sure he was talking to me and then shook my head.

  “No,” I said.

  “Are you sure? Somebody found keys in the parking lot. You better check.”

  I reached into the pocket of my suit jacket, then brought my hand out and extended it, palm up. My key ring was displayed on my hand.

  “See, I tol — ”

  In a quick and unexpected move, the bartender grabbed the keys off my hand and smiled.

  “Falling for that should be a sobriety test in and of itself,” he said. “Anyway, pal, you’re not driving — not for a while. When you’re ready to go, I’ll call you a taxi.”

  He stepped back from the bar in case I had a violent objection to the ruse. But I just nodded.

  “You got me,” I said.

  He tossed my keys onto the back counter, where the bottles were lined up. I looked at my watch. It wasn’t even five o’clock. Embarrassment burned through the alcohol padding. I had taken the easy way out. The coward’s way, getting drunk in the face of a terrible occurrence.

  “You can take it,” I said, pointing to my glass of Guinness.

  I picked up the phone and punched in a speed-dial number. Maggie McPherson answered right away. The courts usually closed by four-thirty. The prosecutors were usually at their desks in that last hour or two before the end of the day.

  “Hey, is it quitting time yet?”

  “Haller?”

  “Yeah.”

  “What’s going on? Are you drinking? Your voice is different.”

  “I think I might need you to drive me home this time.”

  “Where are you?”

  “For Greedy Fucks.”

  “What?”

  “Four Green Fields. I’ve been here awhile.”

  “Michael, what is — ”

  “Raul Levin is dead.”

  “Oh my God, what — ”

  “Murdered. So this time can you drive me home? I’ve had too much.”

  “Let me call Stacey and get her to stay late with Hayley, then I’ll be on my way. Do not try to leave there, okay? Just don’t leave.”

  “Don’t worry, the bartender isn’t gonna let me.”

  TWENTY-FIVE

  After closing my phone I told the bartender I had changed my mind and I’d have one more pint while waiting for my ride. I took out my wallet and put a credit card on the bar. He ran my tab first, then got me the Guinness. He took so long filling the glass, spooning foam over the side to give me a full pour, that I had barely tasted it by the time Maggie got there.

  “That was too quick,” I said. “You want a drink?”

  “No, it’s too early. Let’s just get you home.”

  “Okay.”

  I got off the stool, remembered to collect my credit card and phone, and left the bar with my arm around her shoulders and feeling like I had poured more Guinness and vodka down the drain than my own throat.

  “I’m right out front,” Maggie said. “Four Greedy Fucks, how did you come up with that? Do four people own this place?”

  “No, for, as in for the people. As in Haller for the defense. Not the number four. Greedy fucks as in lawyers.”

  “Thank you.”

  “Not you. You’re not a lawyer. You’re a prosecutor.”

  “How much did you drink, Haller?”

  “Somewhere between too much and a lot.”

  “Don’t puke in my car.”

  “I promise.”

  We got to the car, one of the cheap Jaguar models. It was the first car she had ever bought without me holding her hand and being involved in running down the choices. She’d gotten the Jag because it made her feel classy, but anybody who knew cars knew it was just a dressed-up Ford. I didn’t spoil it for her. Whatever made her happy made me happy — except the time she thought divorcing me would make her life happier. That didn’t do much for me.

  She helped me in and then we were off.

  “Don’t pass out, either,” she said as she pulled out of the parking lot. “I don’t know the way.”

  “Just take Laurel Canyon over the hill. After that, it’s just a left turn at the bottom.”

  Even though it was supposed to be a reverse commute, it took almost forty-five minutes in end-of-the-day traffic to get to Fareholm Drive. Along the way I told her about Raul Levin and what had happened. She didn’t react like Lorna had because she had never known Levin. Though I had known him and used him as an investigator for years, he didn’t become a friend until after we had divorced. In fact, it was Raul who had driven me home on more than one night from Four Green Fields as I was getting through the end of my marriage.

  My garage opener was in the Lincoln back at the bar so I told her to just park in the opening in front of the garage. I also realized my front door key was on the ring that had the Lincoln’s key and that had been confiscated by the bartender. We had to go down the side of the house to the back deck and get the spare key — the one Roulet had given me — from beneath an ashtray on the picnic table. We went in the back door, which led directly into my office. This was good because even in my inebriated state I was pleased that we avoided climbing the stairs to the front door. Not only would it have worn me out but she would have seen the view and been reminded of the inequities between life as a prosecutor and life as a greedy fuck.

  “Ah, that’s nice,” she said. “Our little teacup.”

  I followed her eyes and saw she was looking at the photo of our daughter I kept on the desk. I thrilled at the idea I had inadvertently scored a point of some kind with her.

  “Yeah,” I said, fumbling any chance of capitalizing.

  “Which way to the bedroom?” she asked.

  “Well, aren’t you being forward. To the right.”

  “Sorry, Haller, I’m not staying long. I only got a couple extra hours out of Stacey, and with that traffic, I’ve got to turn around and head back over the hill soon.”

  She walked me into the bedroom and we sat down next to each other on the bed.

  “Thank you for doing this,” I said.

  “One good turn deserves another, I guess,” she said.

  “I thought I got my good turn that night I took you home.”

  She put her hand on my cheek and turned my face toward hers. She kissed me. I took this as confirmation that we actually had made love that night. I felt incredibly left out at not remembering.

  “Guinness,” she said, tasting her lips as she pulled away.

  “And some vodka.”

  “Good combination. You’ll be hurting in the morning.”

  “It’s so early I’ll be hurting tonight. Tell you what, why don’t we go get dinner at Dan Tana’s? Craig’s on the door now and — ”

  “No, Mick. I have to go home to Hayley and you have to go to sleep.”

  I made a gesture of surrender.
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br />   “Okay, okay.”

  “Call me in the morning. I want to talk to you when you’re sober.”

  “Okay.”

  “You want to get undressed and get under the covers?”

  “No, I’m all right. I’ll just . . .”

  I leaned back on the bed and kicked my shoes off. I then rolled over to the edge and opened a drawer in the night table. I took out a bottle of Tylenol and a CD that had been given to me by a client named Demetrius Folks. He was a banger from Norwalk known on the street as Lil’ Demon. He had told me once that he’d had a vision one night and that he knew he was destined to die young and violently. He gave me the CD and told me to play it when he was dead. And I did. Demetrius’s prophecy came true. He was killed in a drive-by shooting about six months after he had given me the disc. In Magic Marker he had written Wreckrium for Lil’ Demon on it. It was a collection of ballads he had burned off of Tupac CDs.

  I loaded the CD into the Bose player on the night table and soon the rhythmic beat of “God Bless the Dead” started to play. The song was a salute to fallen comrades.

  “You listen to this stuff?” Maggie asked, her eyes squinting at me in disbelief.

  I shrugged as best I could while leaning on an elbow.

  “Sometimes. It helps me understand a lot of my clients better.”

  “These are the people who should be in jail.”

  “Maybe some of them. But a lot of them have something to say. Some are true poets and this guy was the best of them.”

  “Was? Who is it, the one that got shot outside the car museum on Wilshire?”

  “No, you’re talking about Biggie Smalls. This is the late great Tupac Shakur.”

  “I can’t believe you listen to this stuff.”

  “I told you. It helps me.”

  “Do me a favor. Do not listen to this around Hayley.”

  “Don’t worry about it, I won’t.”

  “I’ve gotta go.”

  “Just stay a little bit.”

  She complied but she sat stiffly on the edge of the bed. I could tell she was trying to pick up the lyrics. You needed an ear for it and it took some time. The next song was “Life Goes On,” and I watched her neck and shoulders tighten as she caught some of the words.