Michael Connelly: The Brass Verdict

“Lorna?”

“Mickey, where’ve you been? I’ve been calling all morning.”

“I went for my run. I just got out of the shower. You okay?”

“I’m fine. Are you?”

“Sure. What is-?”

“You got a forthwith from Judge Holder. She wants to see you – like an hour ago.”

This gave me pause.

“About what?”

“I don’t know. All I know is first Michaela called, then the judge herself called. That usually doesn’t happen. She wanted to know why you weren’t responding.”

I knew that Michaela was Michaela Gill, the judge’s clerk. And Mary Townes Holder was the chief judge of the Los Angeles Superior Court. The fact that she had called personally didn’t make it sound like they were inviting me to the annual justice ball. Mary Townes Holder didn’t call lawyers without a good reason.

“What did you tell her?”

“I just said you didn’t have court today and you might be out on the golf course.”

“I don’t play golf, Lorna.”

“Look, I couldn’t think of anything.”

“It’s all right, I’ll call the judge. Give me the number.”

“Mickey, don’t call. Just go. The judge wants to see you in chambers. She was very clear about that and she wouldn’t tell me why. So just go.”

“Okay, I’m going. I have to get dressed.”

“Mickey?”

“What?”

“How are you really doing?”

I knew her code. I knew what she was asking. She didn’t want me appearing in front of a judge if I wasn’t ready for it.

“You don’t have to worry, Lorna. I’m fine. I’ll be fine.”

“Okay. Call me and let me know what is going on as soon as you can.”

“Don’t worry. I will.”

I hung up the phone, feeling like I was being bossed around by my wife, not my ex-wife.

As the chief judge of the Los Angeles Superior Court, Judge Mary Townes Holder did most of her work behind closed doors. Her courtroom was used on occasion for emergency hearings on motions but rarely used for trials. Her work was done out of the view of the public. In chambers. Her job largely pertained to the administration of the justice system in Los Angeles County. More than two hundred fifty judgeships and forty courthouses fell under her purview. Every jury summons that went into the mail had her name on it, and every assigned parking space in a courthouse garage had her approval. She assigned judges by both geography and designation of law – criminal, civil, juvenile and family. When judges were newly elected to the bench, it was Judge Holder who decided whether they sat in Beverly Hills or Compton, and whether they heard high-stakes financial cases in civil court or soul-draining divorce cases in family court.

I had dressed quickly in what I considered my lucky suit. It was an Italian import from Corneliani that I used to wear on verdict days. Since I hadn’t been in court for a year, or heard a verdict for even longer, I had to take it out of a plastic bag hanging in the back of the closet. After that I sped downtown without delay, thinking that I might be headed toward some sort of verdict on myself. As I drove, my mind raced over the cases and clients I had left behind a year earlier. As far as I knew, nothing had been left open or on the table. But maybe there had been a complaint or the judge had picked up on some courthouse gossip and was running her own inquiry. Regardless, I entered Holder’s courtroom with a lot of trepidation. A summons from any judge was usually not good news; a summons from the chief judge was even worse.

The courtroom was dark and the clerk’s pod next to the bench was empty. I walked through the gate and was heading toward the door to the back hallway, when it opened and the clerk stepped through it. Michaela Gill was a pleasant-looking woman who reminded me of my third-grade teacher. But she wasn’t expecting to find a man approaching the other side of the door when she opened it. She startled and nearly let out a shriek. I quickly identified myself before she could make a run for the panic button on the judge’s bench. She caught her breath and then ushered me back without delay.

I walked down the hallway and found the judge alone in her chambers, working at a massive desk made of dark wood. Her black robe was hanging on a hat rack in the corner. She was dressed in a maroon suit with a conservative cut. She was attractive and neat, midfifties with a slim build and brown hair kept in a short, no-nonsense style.

I had never met Judge Holder before but I knew about her. She had put twenty years in as a prosecutor before being appointed to the bench by a conservative governor. She presided over criminal cases, had a few of the big ones, and was known for handing out maximum sentences. Consequently, she had been easily retained by the electorate after her first term. She had been elected chief judge four years later and had held the position ever since.

“Mr. Haller, thank you for coming,” she said. “I’m glad your secretary finally found you.”

There was an impatient if not imperious tone to her voice.

“She’s not actually my secretary, Judge. But she found me. Sorry it took so long.”

“Well, you’re here. I don’t believe we have met before, have we?”

“I don’t think so.”

“Well, this will betray my age but I actually opposed your father in a trial once. One of his last cases, I believe.”

I had to readjust my estimate of her age. She would have to be at least sixty if she had ever been in a courtroom with my father.

“I was actually third chair on a case, just out of USC Law and green as can be. They were trying to give me some trial exposure. It was a murder case and they let me handle one witness. I prepared a week for my examination and your father destroyed the man on cross in ten minutes. We won the case but I never forgot the lesson. Be prepared for anything.”

I nodded. Over the years I had met several older lawyers who had Mickey Haller Sr. stories to share. I had very few of my own. Before I could ask the judge about the case on which she’d met him, she pressed on.

“But that’s not why I called you here,” she said.

“I didn’t think so, Judge. It sounded like you have something… kind of urgent?”

“I do. Did you know Jerry Vincent?”

I was immediately thrown by her use of the past tense.

“Jerry? Yes, I know Jerry. What about him?”

“He’s dead.”

“Dead?”

“Murdered, actually.”

“When?”

“Last night. I’m sorry.”

My eyes dropped and I looked at the nameplate on her desk. Honorable M. T. Holder was carved in script into a two-dimensional wooden display that held a ceremonial gavel and a fountain pen and inkwell.

“How close were you?” she asked.

It was a good question and I didn’t really know the answer. I kept my eyes down as I spoke.

“We had cases against each other when he was with the DA and I was at the PD. We both left for private practice around the same time and both of us had one-man shops. Over the years we worked some cases together, a couple of drug trials, and we sort of covered for each other when it was needed. He threw me a case occasionally when it was something he didn’t want to handle.”

I had had a professional relationship with Jerry Vincent. Every now and then we clicked glasses at Four Green Fields or saw each other at a ball game at Dodger Stadium. But for me to say we were close would have been an exaggeration. I knew little about him outside of the world of law. I had heard about a divorce a while back on the courthouse gossip line but had never even asked him about it. That was personal information and I didn’t need to know it.

“You seem to forget, Mr. Haller, but I was with the DA back when Mr. Vincent was a young up-and-comer. But then he lost a big case and his star faded. That was when he left for private practice.”