Майкл Коннелли - Law of Innocence

“No, just a double-wide garage door.”

“It got one of those pop-out handles in case of emergency?”

“Yeah, but you need a key.”

“No, you don’t. Those handles you can pop with a flathead.”

“A screwdriver? You sure?”

“I’m sure. I knew a guy, that was his specialty. He’d drive around and hit g’rages all day long. Got cars, tools, lawn mowers … all kinds of good shit to sell.”

I nodded and checked the phone bank. One phone had only one man waiting. I stood up.

“I have to hit the phone line, Bishop,” I said. “Thanks for the intel.”

“I got you, man.”

I walked over to the phones and got behind the single just as the man on the phone in front of him hung up angrily and said, “Fuck you, bitch!”

He walked away and the next man stepped up to the phone. My wait ended up being less than two minutes, as the man in front of me called collect and the call either went unanswered or the recipient declined to accept the charges. He walked away and I stepped up and put my paperwork down on top of the phone box. I entered Jennifer’s cell phone number for a collect call. While I waited for the electronic voice to tell her that she was receiving a collect call from the county jail, I studied the sign on the wall: all calls monitored.

Jennifer accepted.

“Mickey,” she said.

“Jennifer,” I said. “Hold on while I make this announcement. This is Michael Haller, pro se defendant, talking to his co-counsel, Jennifer Aronson, under privilege. This call should not be monitored.”

I waited a beat, presumably for the monitor to move on to another inmate’s call.

“Okay,” I said. “Just checking in. Did you file?”

“I did. Notifications went out. Hopefully we get a hearing tomorrow.”

“Did you and Cisco get that Baja thing set up?”

“Uh, yes … we did.”

“The whole package? Travel, everything?”

“Yep, everything.”

“Good. And the money is ready?”

“Yes.”

“What about the guy, you trust him?”

There was a pause. I assumed Jennifer was realizing what I was doing with the call.

“Absolutely,” she finally said. “He has it down to a science.”

“Good,” I said. “I’ll only get one shot at this.”

“What if they make you wear a bracelet?”

Jennifer had caught on fast. Her mention of the bracelet was pure gold.

“Won’t be a problem,” I said. “We can use that guy Cisco used on that other thing that time. He’ll know what to do.”

“Right,” Jennifer said. “I forgot about him.”

There was another pause while I thought about how to wrap it up.

“So, you’ll have to come down, go fishing with me,” I said.

“I’ll have to brush up on my Spanish,” she said.

“Anything else to talk about?”

“Not really.”

“Okay, then. I guess all I can do is wait on the hearing. See you then.”

I hung up the phone and stepped aside for the man who had lined up behind me. Bishop was no longer at the table where we had talked. I went up the stairs to the second tier and was halfway to my cell when I remembered my paperwork. When I got back to the phone bank, the documents were gone.

I tapped the guy who was on the phone on the shoulder. He turned to me.

“My paperwork,” I said. “Where is it?”

“What?” he said. “I don’t have your fucking paperwork.”

He started to turn back toward the phone box.

“Who took it?” I said.

I hit him on the back again and he turned angrily toward me.

“I don’t know who took it, motherfucker. Get the fuck away from me.”

I turned and scanned the dayroom. There were several inmates moving about the room or sitting in front of an overhead television screen. I looked at their hands or what was beneath their chairs. I didn’t see my paperwork anywhere.

My eyes went to the cells, the bottom tier first and then the second level. I saw no one and nothing suspicious.

I moved to a spot below the mirrored glass of the hack tower. I waved my hands over my head to get attention. Eventually a voice came from the speaker below the glass.

“What is it?”

“Somebody took my legal papers.”

“Who?”

“I don’t know. I left them on the phone box and then two minutes later they were gone.”

“You’re supposed to take care of your property.”

“I know that but somebody took it. I’m pro se and I need the documents. You have to search the module.”

“First of all, you don’t tell me what we have to do. And second, that’s not going to happen.”

“I’m going to report this to the judge. She’s not going to be happy.”

“You can’t see me but I’m shaking.”

“Look, I need to find those documents. They’re important to my case.”

“Then I guess you should have taken better care of them.”

I just stared up at the mirror for a long moment before turning away and heading to my cell. I knew at that moment that it didn’t matter how much money it cost, I needed to get out of this place.

11

Tuesday, December 10

Dana Berg claimed she needed time to prepare her opposition to Jennifer Aronson’s motion to reduce bail. That meant I got to spend another weekend and then some in my cell at Twin Towers. I waited for Tuesday like a man in shark-infested waters waiting for the rope that will finally pull him to safety.

I ate what I hoped would be my last jail baloney sandwich and apple on the bus to the CCB, then began my slow ascent through the courthouse’s vertical jail to the holding cell on the ninth floor beside Judge Warfield’s courtroom. I was delivered there shortly before my 10 a.m. hearing was due to begin, so there was no chance to convene ahead of time with Jennifer. My suit was brought in and I changed. Already tailored once, it was loose in the waist again, and it was mostly by this that I measured what incarceration had done to me. I was clipping on my tie when the courtroom deputy told me it was time for court.

The gallery was more crowded than usual. The reporters were in the same row they always took, and I also saw my daughter and Kendall Roberts as well as my would-be benefactors, Harry Bosch and Andre La Cosse—two men who could not have been more different but were seated there together and ready to shell out their savings for me. Next to them sat Fernando Valenzuela, the bail bondsman ready to make the transaction if the judge could be swayed in my favor. I had worked with Valenzuela on and off for two decades and had at times sworn I would never use him again, just as he had sworn on occasion never to bail out another of my clients. But here he was, apparently willing to let past grievances go and accept the risks of posting a bond for me.

I smiled at my daughter, winked at Kendall. Just as I was about to turn to the defense table, I saw the courtroom door open and Maggie McPherson enter. She scanned the gallery, saw our daughter, and slid in next to her. Hayley was now sitting between Maggie and Kendall, who had never met. She was making introductions when I took my seat next to Jennifer at the defense table.

“Did you ask Maggie McFierce to be here?” I whispered.

“Yes, I did,” Jennifer said.

“Why would you do that?”

“Because she’s a prosecutor and if she says you won’t flee, then that will carry a lot of weight with the judge.”

“Also a lot of weight with her bosses. You shouldn’t have put that kind of pressure on—”

“Mickey, my job today is to get you out of jail. I’ll use every tool I can get my hands on—and you would too.”

Before I could respond, Deputy Chan called the courtroom to order. A second later Judge Warfield stepped through the door behind the clerk’s station and moved quickly up the steps to the bench.