Michael Connelly: The Reversal

Firestone handled the evening arraignment docket, which started at three P.M. and went as far into the night as the list of detainees required. Consequently, he was a jurist who liked to keep things moving. You had to act fast in one hundred or risk being run over and left behind. In here, justice was an assembly line with a conveyor belt that never stopped turning. Firestone wanted to get home. The lawyers wanted to get home. Everybody wanted to get home.

I entered the courtroom with Maggie and immediately saw the cameras being set up in a six-foot corral to the left side, across the courtroom from the glass pen that housed defendants brought in six at a time. Without the glare of spotlights this time, I saw my friend Sticks setting the legs of the tool that provided his nickname, his tripod. He saw me and gave me a nod and I returned it.

Maggie tapped me on the arm and pointed toward a man seated at the prosecution table with three other lawyers.

“That’s Rivas on the end.”

“Okay. You go talk to him while I check in with the clerk.”

“You don’t have to check in, Haller. You’re a prosecutor, remember?”

“Oh, cool. I forgot.”

We headed over to the prosecution table and Maggie introduced me to Rivas. The prosecutor was a baby lawyer, probably no more than a few years out of a top-ranked law school. My guess was that he was biding his time, playing office politics and waiting to make a move up the ladder and out of the hellhole of arraignment court. It didn’t help that I had come from across the aisle to grab the golden ring of the office’s current caseload. By his body language I registered his wariness. I was at the wrong table. I was the fox in the henhouse. And I knew that before the hearing was over, I was going to confirm his suspicions.

After the perfunctory handshake, I looked around for Clive Royce and found him seated against the railing, conferring with a young woman who was probably his associate. They were leaning toward each other, looking into an open folder with a thick sheaf of documents in it. I approached with my hand out.

“Clive ‘The Barrister’ Royce, how’s it hanging, old chap?”

He looked up and a smile immediately creased his well-tanned face. Like a perfect gentleman, he stood up before accepting my hand.

“Mickey, how are you? I’m sorry it looks like we’re going to be opposing counsel on this one.”

I knew he was sorry but not too sorry. Royce had built his career on picking winners. He would not risk going pro bono and stepping into a heavy media case if he didn’t think it would amount to free advertising and another victory. He was in it to win it and behind the smile was a set of sharp teeth.

“Me, too. And I am sure you will make me regret the day I crossed the aisle.”

“Well, I guess we’re both fulfilling our public duty, yes? You helping out the district attorney and me taking on Jessup on the cuff.”

Royce still carried an English accent even though he had lived more than half his fifty years in the United States. It gave him an aura of culture and distinction that belied his practice of defending people accused of heinous crimes. He wore a three-piece suit with a barely discernible chalk line in the gabardine. His bald pate was well tanned and smooth, his beard dyed black and groomed to the very last hair.

“That’s one way of looking at it,” I said.

“Oh, where are my manners? Mickey, this is my associate Denise Graydon. She’ll be assisting me in the defense of Mr. Jessup.”

Graydon stood up and shook my hand firmly.

“Nice to meet you,” I said.

I looked around to see if Maggie was standing nearby and could be introduced but she was huddled with Rivas at the prosecution table.

“Well,” I said to Royce. “Did you get your client on the docket?”

“I did indeed. He’ll be first in the group after this one. I’ve already gone back and visited and we’ll be ready to make a motion for bail. I was wondering, though, since we have a few minutes, could we step out into the corridor for a word?”

“Sure, Clive. Let’s do it now.”

Royce told his associate to wait in the courtroom and retrieve us when the next group of defendants was brought into the glass cage. I followed Royce through the gate and down the aisle between the crowded rows of the gallery. We went through the mantrap and into the hallway.

“You want to get a cup of tea?” Royce asked.

“I don’t think there’s time. What’s up, Clive?”

Royce folded his arms and got serious.

“I must tell you, Mick, that I am not out to embarrass you. You are a friend and colleague in the defense bar. But you have gotten yourself into a no-win situation here, yes? What are we going to do about it?”

I smiled and glanced up and down the crowded hallway. Nobody was paying attention to us.

“Are you saying that your client wants to plead this out?”

“On the contrary. There will be no plea negotiation on this matter. The district attorney has made the wrong choice and it’s very clear what maneuver he is undertaking here and how he is using you as a pawn in the process. I must put you on notice that if you insist on taking Jason Jessup to trial, then you are going to embarrass yourself. As a professional courtesy, I just thought I needed to tell you this.”

Before I could answer, Graydon came out of the courtroom and headed quickly toward us.

“Somebody in the first group is not ready, so Jessup’s been moved up and was just brought out.”

“We’ll be in straightaway,” Royce said.

She hesitated and then realized her boss wanted her to go back into the courtroom. She went back through the doors and Royce turned his attention back to me. I spoke before he could.

“I appreciate your courtesy and concern, Clive. But if your client wants a trial, he’ll get a trial. We’ll be ready and we’ll see who gets embarrassed and who goes back to prison.”

“Brilliant, then. I look forward to the contest.”

I followed him back inside. Court was in session and on my way down the aisle I saw Lorna Taylor, my office manager and second ex-wife, sitting at the end of one of the crowded rows. I leaned over to whisper.

“Hey, what are you doing here?”

“I had to come see the big moment.”

“How did you even know? I just found out fifteen minutes ago.”

“I guess so did KNX. I was already down here to look at office space and heard it on the radio that Jessup was going to appear in court. So I came.”

“Well, thanks for being here, Lorna. How is the search going? I really need to get out of this building. Soon.”

“I have three more showings after this. That’ll be enough. I’ll let you know my final choices tomorrow, okay?”

“Yeah, that’s-”

I heard Jessup’s name called by the clerk.

“Look, I gotta get in there. We’ll talk later.”

“Go get ’em, Mickey!”

I found an empty seat waiting for me next to Maggie at the prosecution table. Rivas had moved to the row of seats against the gate. Royce had moved to the glass cage, where he was whispering to his client. Jessup was wearing an orange jumpsuit-the jail uniform-and looked calm and subdued. He was nodding to everything Royce whispered in his ear. He somehow seemed younger than I had thought he would. I guess I expected all of those years in prison to have taken their toll. I knew he was forty-eight but he looked no older than forty. He didn’t even have a jailhouse pallor. His skin was pale but it looked healthy, especially next to the overtanned Royce.

“Where did you go?” Maggie whispered to me. “I thought I was going to have to handle this myself.”

“I was just outside conferring with defense counsel. Do you have the charges handy? In case I have to read them into the record.”