Майкл Коннелли - Law of Innocence

“You’re here to tell me I have to start eating but you’re not going to eat?” I said.

“I know these dinners are special,” Maggie said. “For both of you—going all the way back to when you used to get pancakes at the Du-Par’s that isn’t there anymore. I just wanted to see you and ask how you’re doing, then let you two be together.”

“You can stay,” I said. “We would always make room for you.”

“No, I have plans,” Maggie said. “I’m going to go, but you didn’t answer my question. How can we help you, Mickey?”

“Well,” I said, “you could start by telling your colleague, Iceberg, that she’s so blinded by the idea of having me as a trophy on her shelf that she’s not seeing the case for what it really is. A set—”

Maggie waved her hands to cut me off.

“I’m talking about what we could do outside the courtroom,” she said. “This is an extremely awkward work situation, as you know. They’ve kept me far away from the case because of the conflict of interest, but I don’t even have to see the case or the evidence to know there’s no way you did this. Just as I know you’re going to win the case. Hayley and I could never think otherwise. But you need to be able to win the case, and your physical health is key. And you look like shit, Mickey. I’m sorry, but I’ve seen you in court. Hayley said you got your suits altered, but you still look like skin and bones. You’ve got circles under your eyes … you don’t look confident. You don’t look like the Lincoln Lawyer we know and love.”

I was silent. Her words hit hard because I knew they were sincere.

“Thank you,” I finally said. “I mean that. It’s a good reminder. Act like a winner, you’ll become a winner. That’s the rule and I guess I forgot it. You can’t act like a winner if you don’t look like one. It’s all about sleep, I think. It’s hard to sleep with this hanging over me.”

“See a doctor,” Maggie said. “Get a prescription.”

I shook my head.

“No prescriptions,” I said. “But I’ll figure something out. Should we order? You sure you can’t stay? The food here is great.”

“I can’t,” she said. “I really do have a meeting and I want you and Hay to visit. She was just telling me that she’s learning more watching you in court than in the hallowed hallways of USC Law. Anyway, I’m going to go now.”

Maggie pushed back her chair.

“Thanks, Mags,” I said. “It means a lot.”

“Take care of yourself,” she said.

And then she did a surprising thing. After leaning down and kissing Hayley on the cheek, she came around the table to kiss me as well. It was the first time in too many years for me to remember.

“Bye, guys,” she said.

I watched her go and was silent for a few moments.

“Do they really call her that?” Hayley asked.

“What?” I asked.

“Iceberg.”

“Yeah, they do.”

She laughed and then I did too. The waitress came and we ordered off the happy-hour menu. Hayley had lobster tacos and, inspired by Maggie’s “skin and bones” comment, I ordered the classic hamburger with grilled onions even though I’d had a late lunch.

During the meal, we mostly talked about her classes. She was at a stage where the law was a wonderful thing, with protections for all and equitable punishments for the offenders. It was an exciting time and I remembered it well. It was when ideals were set and goals attached to them. I let her talk and mostly just smiled and nodded my head. My mind was on Maggie. The things she had said, and the kiss at the end.

“Now you,” Hayley said at one point.

I looked up, a french fry ready to go into my mouth.

“What do you mean?” I asked.

“All we’ve been talking about is me and the theoretical world of law,” she said. “What about you and the real world? How is the case going?”

“What case?”

“Daaad.”

“Just kidding. It’s going well. We’re coming up with some good stuff, I think. I’m beginning to see the trial come together. There was a football coach. I can’t remember who it was—maybe Belichick, the Patriots guy. Anyway, he would call the first twelve plays of the game for the offense a couple days before the game even started. He’d look at film of the other team, study their habits, decide what he expected them to do on defense, and write out the plays. That’s the place I’m getting to. I can see things falling into place—witnesses, evidence.”

“But you don’t get to go until after the prosecution.”

“True. But I pretty much know what they’re going to do. I mean, we’re four weeks out, so there’s plenty of time for things to change and maybe they surprise me. But right now I’m thinking about my case, not the state’s, and I’m beginning to feel good about it.”

“That’s great. I already talked to all of my professors and told them I needed to be there.”

“Look, I know you’re with me on it, but you don’t have to be there and miss school. Maybe come for openers and then I’ll let you know if there’s something you might want to see. Then the verdict and the celebration afterward.”

I smiled, hoping she would share my optimism.

“Dad, don’t jinx yourself,” she said instead.

“Is that what they teach you at USC Law?” I said. “How not to jinx a case?”

“No, that’s third year.”

“Funny girl.”

We went our separate ways outside the restaurant. I walked off but then stopped to watch her make her way through the plaza. It was dark now but the campus was well lit. She walked with confidence and a fast step. I watched until she disappeared between two buildings.

Bishop was waiting for me at the appointed spot. I got in the rear passenger door. He handed a cheap flip phone over the seat to me as well as change from my sixty.

“Did you get something to eat?” I asked.

“I went over to the Tam’s on Fig,” he said.

“I had a hamburger, too.”

“Hit the spot. So, where to?”

“Just hold right here a minute while I make a call.”

On my real phone I googled the number for the FBI’s Los Angeles Field Office and called it on the burner. It was answered by a male voice and a curt “FBI.”

“Yes, I need to get a message to an agent.”

“There’s nobody in right now. Everybody’s gone home.”

“I know. Can you please get a message to Agent Dawn Ruth?”

“You’ll have to do that tomorrow.”

“It’s an emergency call from a confidential informant. Tomorrow will be too late.”

There was a long pause and then he relented.

“Is this the number she needs to call?”

“Yes, and the name is Walter Lennon.”

“Walter Lennon. Got it.”

“Please call her now. Thank you.”

I closed the burner and looked over the seat at Bishop.

“Okay, drive. I want to be moving if she calls back. Harder to track us that way.”

“Anywhere?”

“Tell you what—head toward your place. I can drop you off tonight instead of you dropping me and taking an Uber.”

“You sure?”

“Yeah, go. I want to be moving.”

Bishop pulled the Lincoln away from the curb and started driving. He was soon on the 110 freeway going south. I knew he would connect to the 105 and turn west toward Inglewood.

We were in the carpool lane and making good time. As we took the exit to the 105, the burner phone started to buzz with a call. Caller ID was blocked. I flipped it open but didn’t speak. Soon I heard a woman’s voice.

“Who is this?”

“Agent Ruth, thanks for calling. It’s Mick Haller.”

“Haller? What the hell are you doing?”

“Is this a private line? I don’t think you want this recorded.”