Michael Connelly - The Brass Verdict

The file said Henson had successfully completed rehab and was working part-time at a surf camp for kids on the beach in Santa Monica. He was barely making enough to live on, let alone pay $1,000 a month to Vincent. His mother, meanwhile, had been tapped out by his bail and the cost of his stay in rehab.

The file was replete with motions to continue and other filings as delay tactics undertaken by Vincent while he waited for Henson to come across with more cash. This was standard practice. Get your money up front, especially when the case is probably a dog. The prosecutor had Henson on tape selling the stolen merchandise. It meant the case was worse than a dog. It was roadkill.

There was a phone number in the file for Henson. One thing every lawyer drilled into nonincarcerated clients was the need to maintain a method of contact. Those facing criminal charges and the likelihood of prison often had unstable home lives. They moved around, sometimes were completely homeless. But a lawyer had to be able to reach them at a moment’s notice. The number was listed in the file as Henson’s cell, and if it was still good, I could call him right now. The question was, did I want to?

I looked up at the bench. The judge was still in the middle of oral arguments on a bail motion. There were still three other lawyers waiting their turn at other motions and no sign of the prosecutor who was assigned to the Edgar Reese case. I got up and whispered to the deputy again.

“I’m going out into the hallway to make a call. I’ll be close.”

He nodded.

“If you’re not back when it’s time, I’ll come grab you,” he said. “Just make sure you turn that phone off before coming back in. The judge doesn’t like cell phones.”

He didn’t have to tell me that. I already knew firsthand that the judge didn’t like cell phones in her court. My lesson was learned when I was making an appearance before her and my phone started playing the William Tell Overture – my daughter’s ringtone choice, not mine. The judge slapped me with a $100-dollar fine and had taken to referring to me ever since as the Lone Ranger. That last part I didn’t mind so much. I sometimes felt like I was the Lone Ranger. I just rode in a black Lincoln Town Car instead of on a white horse.

I left my case and the other files on the bench in the gallery and walked out into the hallway with only the Henson file. I found a reasonably quiet spot in the crowded hallway and called the number. It was answered after two rings.

“This is Trick.”

“Patrick Henson?”

“Yeah, who’s this?”

“I’m your new lawyer. My name is Mi- ”

“Whoa, wait a minute. What happened to my old lawyer? I gave that guy Vincent-”

“He’s dead, Patrick. He passed away last night.”

“Nooooo.”

“Yes, Patrick. I’m sorry about that.”

I waited a moment to see if he had anything else to say about it, then started in as perfunctorily as a bureaucrat.

“My name is Michael Haller and I’m taking over Jerry Vincent’s cases. I’ve been reviewing your file here and I see you haven’t made a single payment on the schedule Mr. Vincent put you on.”

“Ah, man, this is the deal. I’ve been concentrating on getting right and staying right and I’ve got no fucking money. Okay? I already gave that guy Vincent all my boards. He counted it as five grand but I know he got more. A couple of those long boards were worth at least a grand apiece. He told me that he got enough to get started but all he’s been doing is delaying things. I can’t get back to shit until this thing is all over.”

“Are you staying right, Patrick? Are you clean?”

“As a fucking whistle, man. Vincent told me it was the only way I’d have a shot at staying out of jail.”

I looked up and down the hallway. It was crowded with lawyers and defendants and witnesses and the families of those victimized or accused. It was a football field long and everybody in it was hoping for one thing. A break. For the clouds to open and something to go their way just this one time.

“Jerry was right, Patrick. You have to stay clean.”

“I’m doing it.”

“You got a job?”

“Man, don’t you guys see? No one’s going to give a guy like me a job. Nobody’s going to hire me. I’m waiting on this case and I might be in jail before it’s all over. I mean, I teach water babies part-time on the beach but it don’t pay me jack. I’m living out of my damn car, sleeping on a lifeguard stand at Hermosa Beach. This time two years ago? I was in a suite at the Four Seasons in Maui.”

“Yeah, I know, life sucks. You still have a driver’s license?”

“That’s about all I got left.”

I made a decision.

“Okay, you know where Jerry Vincent’s office is? You ever been there?”

“Yeah, I delivered the boards there. And my fish.”

“Your fish?”

“He took a sixty-pound tarpon I caught when I was a kid back in Florida. Said he was going to put it on the wall and pretend like he caught it or something.”

“Yeah, well, your fish is still there. Anyway, be at the office at nine sharp tomorrow morning and I’ll interview you for a job. If it goes right, then you’ll start right away.”

“Doing what?”

“Driving me. I’ll pay you fifteen bucks an hour to drive and another fifteen toward your fees. How’s that?”

There was a moment of silence before Henson responded in an accommodating voice.

“That’s good, man. I can be there for that.”

“Good. See you then. Just remember something, Patrick. You gotta stay clean. If you’re not, I’ll know. Believe me, I’ll know.”

“Don’t worry, man. I will never go back to that shit. That shit fucked my life up for good.”

“Okay, Patrick, I’ll see you tomorrow.”

“Hey, man, why are you doing this?”

I hesitated before answering.

“You know, I don’t really know.”

I closed the phone and made sure to turn it off. I went back into the courtroom wondering if I was doing something good or making the kind of mistake that would catch up and bite me on the ass.

It was perfect timing. The judge finished with the last motion as I came back in. I saw that a deputy district attorney named Don Pierce was sitting at the prosecution table, ready to go with the sentencing. He was an ex-navy guy who kept the crew cut going and was one of the regulars at cocktail hour at Four Green Fields. I quickly packed all the files back into my bag and wheeled it through the gate to the defense table.

“Well,” the judge said, “I see the Lone Ranger rides again.”

She said it with a smile and I smiled back at her.

“Yes, Your Honor. Nice to see you.”

“I haven’t seen you in quite a while, Mr. Haller.”

Open court was not the place to tell her where I had been. I kept my responses short. I spread my hands as if presenting the new me.

“All I can say is, I’m back now, Judge.”

“I’m glad to see that. Now, you are here in place of Mr. Vincent, is that correct?”

It was said in a routine tone. I could tell she did not know about Vincent’s demise. I knew I could keep the secret and get through the sentencing with it. But then she would hear the story and wonder why I hadn’t brought it up and told her. It was not a good way to keep a judge on your side.

“Unfortunately, Your Honor,” I said, “Mr. Vincent passed away last night.”

The judge’s eyebrows arched in shock. She had been a longtime prosecutor before being a longtime judge. She was wired into the legal community and most likely knew Jerry Vincent well. I had just hit her with a major jolt.

“Oh, my, he was so young!” she exclaimed. “What happened?”

I shook my head like I didn’t know.