Michael Connelly: The Brass Verdict

Here we were again. She was back to throwing the cases to another lawyer. Probably some campaign contributor from Century City who couldn’t find his way around a criminal proceeding if his Riviera membership depended on it.

“All of it ancient history, Judge. All of it technicalities. I’m in good standing with the bar. If you called them today, then I’m sure you were told that.”

She stared at me for a long moment before dropping her eyes to the document in front of her on the desk.

“Very well, then,” she said.

She scribbled a signature on the last page of the document. I felt the flutter of excitement begin to build in my chest.

“Here is an order transferring the practice to you,” the judge said. “You might need it when you go to his office. And let me tell you this. I am going to be monitoring you. I want an updated inventory of cases by the beginning of next week. The status of every case on the client list. I want to know which clients will work with you and which will find other representation. After that, I want biweekly status updates on all cases in which you remain counsel. Am I being clear?”

“Perfectly clear, Judge. For how long?”

“What?”

“For how long do you want me to give you biweekly updates?”

She stared at me and her face hardened.

“Until I tell you to stop.”

She handed me the order.

“You can go now, Mr. Haller, and if I were you, I would get over there and protect my new clients from any unlawful search and seizure of their files by the police. If you have any problem, you can always call on me. I have put my after-hours number on the order.”

“Yes, Your Honor. Thank you.”

“Good luck, Mr. Haller.”

I stood up and headed out of the room. When I got to the doorway of her chambers I glanced back at her. She had her head down and was working on the next court order.

Out in the courthouse hallway, I read the two-page document the judge had given me, confirming that what had just happened was real.

It was. The document I held appointed me substitute counsel, at least temporarily, on all of Jerry Vincent’s cases. It granted me immediate access to the fallen attorney’s office, files and bank accounts into which client advances had been deposited.

I pulled out my cell phone and called Lorna Taylor. I asked her to look up the address of Jerry Vincent’s office. She gave it to me and I told her to meet me there and to pick up two sandwiches on her way.

“Why?” she asked.

“Because I haven’t had lunch.”

“No, why are we going to Jerry Vincent’s office?”

“Because we’re back in business.”

I was in my Lincoln driving toward Jerry Vincent’s office, when I thought of something and called Lorna Taylor back. When she didn’t answer I called her cell and caught her in her car.

“I’m going to need an investigator. How would you feel if I called Cisco?”

There was a hesitation before she answered. Cisco was Dennis Wojciechowski, her significant other as of the past year. I was the one who had introduced them when I used him on a case. Last I heard, they were now living together.

“Well, I have no problem working with Cisco. But I wish you would tell me what this is all about.”

Lorna knew Jerry Vincent as a voice on the phone. It was she who would take his calls when he was checking to see if I could stand in on a sentence or babysit a client through an arraignment. I couldn’t remember if they had ever met in person. I had wanted to tell her the news in person but things were moving too quickly for that.

“Jerry Vincent is dead.”

“What?”

“He was murdered last night and I’m getting first shot at all of his cases. Including Walter Elliot.”

She was silent for a long moment before responding.

“My God… How? He was such a nice man.”

“I couldn’t remember if you had ever met him.”

Lorna worked out of her condo in West Hollywood. All my calls and billing went through her. If there was a brick-and-mortar office for the law firm of Michael Haller and Associates, then her place was it. But there weren’t any associates and when I worked, my office was the backseat of my car. This left few occasions for Lorna to meet face-to-face with any of the people I represented or associated with.

“He came to our wedding, don’t you remember?”

“That’s right. I forgot.”

“I can’t believe this. What happened?”

“I don’t know. Holder said he was shot in the garage at his office. Maybe I’ll find out something when I get there.”

“Did he have a family?”

“I think he was divorced but I don’t know if there were kids or what. I don’t think so.”

Lorna didn’t say anything. We both had our own thoughts occupying us.

“Let me go so I can call Cisco,” I finally said. “Do you know what he’s doing today?”

“No, he didn’t say.”

“All right, I’ll see.”

“What kind of sandwich do you want?”

“Which way you coming?”

“Sunset.”

“Stop at Dusty’s and get me one of those turkey sandwiches with cranberry sauce. It’s been almost a year since I’ve had one of those.”

“You got it.”

“And get something for Cisco in case he’s hungry.”

“All right.”

I hung up and looked up the number for Dennis Wojciechowski in the address book I keep in the center console compartment. I had his cell phone. When he answered I heard a mixture of wind and exhaust blast in the phone. He was on his bike and even though I knew his helmet was set up with an earpiece and mike attached to his cell, I had to yell.

“It’s Mickey Haller. Pull over.”

I waited and heard him cut the engine on his ’sixty-three panhead.

“What’s up, Mick?” he asked when it finally got quiet. “Haven’t heard from you in a long time.”

“You gotta put the baffles back in your pipes, man. Or you’ll be deaf before you’re forty and then you won’t be hearing from anybody.”

“I’m already past forty and I hear you just fine. What’s going on?”

Wojciechowski was a freelance defense investigator I had used on a few cases. That was how he had met Lorna, collecting his pay. But I had known him for more than ten years before that because of his association with the Road Saints Motorcycle Club, a group for which I served as a de facto house counsel for several years. Dennis never flew RSMC colors but was considered an associate member. The group even bestowed a nickname on him, largely because there was already a Dennis in the membership – known, of course, as Dennis the Menace – and his last name, Wojciechowski, was intolerably difficult to pronounce. Riffing off his dark looks and mustache, they christened him the Cisco Kid. It didn’t matter that he was one hundred percent Polish out of the south side of Milwaukee.

Cisco was a big, imposing man but he kept his nose clean while riding with the Saints. He never caught an arrest record and that paid off when he later applied to the state for his private investigator’s license. Now, many years later, the long hair was gone and the mustache was trimmed and going gray. But the name Cisco and the penchant for riding classic Harleys built in his hometown had stuck for life.

Cisco was a thorough and thoughtful investigator. And he had another value as well. He was big and strong and could be physically intimidating when necessary. That attribute could be highly useful when tracking down and dealing with people who fluttered around the edges of a criminal case.

“First of all, where are you?” I asked.

“Burbank.”

“You on a case?”

“No, just a ride. Why, you got something for me? You taking on a case finally?”