Michael Connelly: The Brass Verdict

“A lot of cases. And I’m going to need an investigator.”

I gave him the address of Vincent’s office and told him to meet me there as soon as he could. I knew that Vincent would have used either a stable of investigators or just one in particular, and that there might be a loss of time as Cisco got up to speed on the cases, but all of that was okay with me. I wanted an investigator I could trust and already had a working relationship with. I was also going to need Cisco to immediately start work by running down the locations of my new clients. My experience with criminal defendants is that they are not always found at the addresses they put down on the client info sheet when they first sign up for legal representation.

After closing the phone I realized I had driven right by the building where Vincent’s office was located. It was on Broadway near Third Street and there was too much traffic with cars and pedestrians for me to attempt a U-turn. I wasted ten minutes working my way back to it, catching red lights at every corner. By the time I got to the right place, I was so frustrated that I resolved to hire a driver again as soon as possible so that I could concentrate on cases instead of addresses.

Vincent’s office was in a six-story structure called simply the Legal Center. Being so close to the main downtown courthouses – both criminal and civil – meant it was a building full of trial lawyers. Just the kind of place most cops and doctors – lawyer haters – probably wished would implode every time there was an earthquake. I saw the opening for the parking garage next door and pulled in.

As I was taking the ticket out of the machine, a uniformed police officer approached my car. He was carrying a clipboard.

“Sir? Do you have business in the building here?”

“That’s why I’m parking here.”

“Sir, could you state your business?”

“What business is it of yours, Officer?”

“Sir, we are conducting a crime scene investigation in the garage and I need to know your business before I can allow you in.”

“My office is in the building,” I said. “Will that do?”

It wasn’t exactly a lie. I had Judge Holder’s court order in my coat pocket. That gave me an office in the building.

The answer seemed to work. The cop asked to see my ID and I could’ve argued that he had no right to request my identification but decided that there was no need to make a federal case out of it. I pulled my wallet and gave him the ID and he wrote my name and driver’s license number down on his clipboard. Then he let me through.

“At the moment there’s no parking on the second level,” he said. “They haven’t cleared the scene.”

I waved and headed up the ramp. When I reached the second floor, I saw that it was empty of vehicles except for two patrol cars and a black BMW coupe that was being hauled onto the bed of a truck from the police garage. Jerry Vincent’s car, I assumed. Two other uniformed cops were just beginning to pull down the yellow crime scene tape that had been used to cordon off the parking level. One of them signaled for me to keep going. I saw no detectives around but the police weren’t giving up the murder scene just yet.

I kept going up and didn’t find a space I could fit the Lincoln into until I got to the fifth floor. One more reason I needed to get a driver again.

The office I was looking for was on the second floor at the front of the building. The opaque glass door was closed but not locked. I entered a reception room with an empty sitting area and a nearby counter behind which sat a woman whose eyes were red from crying. She was on the phone but when she saw me, she put it down on the counter without so much as a “hold on” to whomever she was talking to.

“Are you with the police?” she asked.

“No, I’m not,” I replied.

“Then, I’m sorry, the office is closed today.”

I approached the counter, pulling the court order from Judge Holder out of the inside pocket of my suit coat.

“Not for me,” I said as I handed it to her.

She unfolded the document and stared at it but didn’t seem to be reading it. I noticed that in one of her hands she clutched a wad of tissues.

“What is this?” she asked.

“That’s a court order,” I said. “My name is Michael Haller and Judge Holder has appointed me replacement counsel in regard to Jerry Vincent’s clients. That means we’ll be working together. You can call me Mickey.”

She shook her head as if warding off some invisible threat. My name usually didn’t carry that sort of power.

“You can’t do this. Mr. Vincent wouldn’t want this.”

I took the court papers out of her hand and refolded them. I started putting the document back into my pocket.

“Actually, I can. The chief judge of Los Angeles Superior Court has directed me to do this. And if you look closely at the contracts of representation that Mr. Vincent had his clients sign, you will find my name already on them, listed as associate counsel. So, what you think Mr. Vincent would have wanted is immaterial at this point because he did in fact file the papers that named me his replacement should he become incapacitated or… dead.”

The woman had a dazed look on her face. Her mascara was heavy and running beneath one eye. It gave her an uneven, almost comical look. For some reason a vision of Liza Minnelli jumped to my mind.

“If you want, you can call Judge Holder’s clerk and talk about it with her,” I said. “Meantime, I really need to get started here. I know this has been a very difficult day for you. It’s been difficult for me – I knew Jerry going back to his days at the DA. So you have my sympathy.”

I nodded and looked at her and waited for a response but I still wasn’t getting one. I pressed on.

“I’m going to need some things to get started here. First of all, his calendar. I want to put together a list of all the active cases Jerry was handling. Then, I’m going to need you to pull the files for those-”

“It’s gone,” she said abruptly.

“What’s gone?”

“His laptop. The police told me whoever did this took his briefcase out of the car. He kept everything on his laptop.”

“You mean his calendar? He didn’t keep a hard copy?”

“That’s gone, too. They took his portfolio. That was in the briefcase.”

Her eyes were staring blankly ahead. I tapped the top of the computer screen on her desk.

“What about this computer?” I asked. “Didn’t he back up his calendar anywhere?”

She didn’t say anything, so I asked again.

“Did Jerry back up his calendar anywhere else? Is there any way to access it?”

She finally looked up at me and seemed to take pleasure in responding.

“I didn’t keep the calendar. He did. He kept it all on his laptop and he kept a hard copy in the old portfolio he carried. But they’re both gone. The police made me look everywhere in here but they’re gone.”

I nodded. The missing calendar was going to be a problem but it wasn’t insurmountable.

“What about files? Did he have any in the briefcase?”

“I don’t think so. He kept all the files here.”

“Okay, good. What we’re going to have to do is pull all the active cases and rebuild the calendar from the files. I’ll also need to see any ledgers or checkbooks pertaining to the trust and operating accounts.”

She looked up at me sharply.

“You’re not going to take his money.”

“It’s not-”

I stopped, took a deep breath and then started again in a calm but direct tone.

“First of all, I apologize. I did this backwards. I don’t even know your name. Let’s start over. What is your name?”

“Wren.”

“Wren? Wren what?”