The Lincoln Lawyer Collection Read online

  THE LINCOLN LAWYER COLLECTION

  The Lincoln Lawyer

  The Brass Verdict

  The Reversal

  MICHAEL CONNELLY

  Contents

  Title Page

  The Lincoln Lawyer

  The Brass Verdict

  The Reversal

  About the Author

  By Michael Connelly

  Copyright

  Praise for Michael Connelly

  ‘Connelly is one of the great crime writers, a novelist who creates a fictional world so succinctly, and inhabits it so purposefully, that you are convinced it must be real. His mastery of place and character, his ease with dialogue, his control of plot gives his books a subtlety that is irresistible’

  Daily Mail

  ‘A clever plot, full of twists, to make a first-rate legal thriller’

  Sunday Telegraph

  ‘Connelly’s fifth novel to feature roguish defence lawyer Mickey Haller is even better than last year’s The Black Box’

  Mail on Sunday

  ‘Expect surprises and plenty of dark moments in this punchy legal drama from an ever-reliable writer’

  Financial Times

  ‘Connelly is superb at building suspense’

  Wall Street Journal

  ‘In the crime fiction stakes Connelly is comfortably in the upper bracket’

  Daily Express

  ‘A clever thriller with a brilliant double twist but also a heart-felt examination of the difference between natural justice and the law’

  Evening Standard

  ‘Connelly masterfully manages to marry an absorbing court-room drama with a tense and exciting thriller of detection’

  The Times

  ‘While the themes of Connelly’s LA crime novels are familiar (power, envy, corruption), his plotting is anything but’

  Esquire

  ‘A story that’s as old as the genre itself but Connelly’s skill is such that it all feels entirely fresh and vibrant, but heartbreakingly poignant too’

  Irish Sunday Independent

  Dedication

  This is for Daniel F. Daly and Roger O. Mills

  Contents

  Praise for Michael Connelly

  Dedication

  Title Page

  Acknowledgments

  Epigraph

  PART ONE — PRETRIAL INTERVENTION

  Monday, March 7 - ONE

  TWO

  THREE

  FOUR

  FIVE

  SIX

  SEVEN

  EIGHT

  NINE

  Thursday, March 17 - TEN

  ELEVEN

  TWELVE

  THIRTEEN

  FOURTEEN

  FIFTEEN

  SIXTEEN

  Friday, March 18 - SEVENTEEN

  EIGHTEEN

  NINETEEN

  TWENTY

  TWENTY-ONE

  Tuesday, April 12 - TWENTY-TWO

  TWENTY-THREE

  TWENTY-FOUR

  TWENTY-FIVE

  Wednesday, April 13 - TWENTY-SIX

  PART TWO — A WORLD WITHOUT TRUTH

  Monday, May 23 - TWENTY-SEVEN

  TWENTY-EIGHT

  TWENTY-NINE

  THIRTY

  THIRTY-ONE

  THIRTY-TWO

  Tuesday, May 24 - THIRTY-THREE

  THIRTY-FOUR

  THIRTY-FIVE

  THIRTY-SIX

  THIRTY-SEVEN

  Wednesday, May 25 - THIRTY-EIGHT

  THIRTY-NINE

  FORTY

  FORTY-ONE

  FORTY-TWO

  FORTY-THREE

  FORTY-FOUR

  FORTY-FIVE

  FORTY-SIX

  PART THREE — POSTCARD FROM CUBA

  Tuesday, October 4 - FORTY-SEVEN

  Permissions

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  This novel was inspired by a chance meeting and conversation with attorney David Ogden many years ago at a Los Angeles Dodgers baseball game. For that, the author will always be grateful. Though the character and exploits of Mickey Haller are fictitious and wholly of the author’s imagination, this story could not have been written without the tremendous help and guidance of attorneys Daniel F. Daly and Roger O. Mills, both of whom allowed me to watch them work and strategize cases and were tireless in their efforts to make sure the world of criminal defense law was depicted accurately in these pages. Any errors or exaggerations in the law or the practice of it are purely the fault of the author.

  Superior Court Judge Judith Champagne and her staff in Department 124 in the Criminal Courts Building in downtown Los Angeles allowed the author complete access to her courtroom, chambers and holding cells and answered any question posed. To the judge, Joe, Marianne, and Michelle a great debt of thanks is owed.

  Also of great help to the author and contribution to the story were Asya Muchnick, Michael Pietsch, Jane Wood, Terrill Lee Lankford, Jerry Hooten, David Lambkin, Lucas Foster, Carolyn Chriss, and Pamela Marshall.

  Last but not least, the author wishes to thank Shannon Byrne, Mary Elizabeth Capps, Jane Davis, Joel Gotler, Philip Spitzer, Lukas Ortiz, and Linda Connelly for their help and support during the writing of this story.

  There is no client as scary as an innocent man.

  — J. MICHAEL HALLER, CRIMINAL DEFENSE ATTORNEY, LOS ANGELES, 1962

  PART ONE

  — PRETRIAL INTERVENTION

  Monday, March 7

  ONE

  The morning air off the Mojave in late winter is as clean and crisp as you’ll ever breathe in Los Angeles County. It carries the taste of promise on it. When it starts blowing in like that I like to keep a window open in my office. There are a few people who know this routine of mine, people like Fernando Valenzuela. The bondsman, not the baseball pitcher. He called me as I was coming into Lancaster for a nine o’clock calendar call. He must have heard the wind whistling in my cell phone.

  “Mick,” he said, “you up north this morning?”

  “At the moment,” I said as I put the window up to hear him better. “You got something?”

  “Yeah, I got something. I think I got a franchise player here. But his first appearance is at eleven. Can you make it back down in time?”

  Valenzuela has a storefront office on Van Nuys Boulevard a block from the civic center, which includes two courthouses and the Van Nuys jail. He calls his business Liberty Bail Bonds. His phone number, in red neon on the roof of his establishment, can be seen from the high-power wing on the third floor of the jail. His number is scratched into the paint on the wall next to every pay phone on every other ward in the jail.

  You could say his name is also permanently scratched onto my Christmas list. At the end of the year I give a can of salted nuts to everybody on it. Planters holiday mix. Each can has a ribbon and bow on it. But no nuts inside. Just cash. I have a lot of bail bondsmen on my Christmas list. I eat holiday mix out of Tupperware well into spring. Since my last divorce, it is sometimes all I get for dinner.

  Before answering Valenzuela’s question I thought about the calendar call I was headed to. My client was named Harold Casey. If the docket was handled alphabetically I could make an eleven o’clock hearing down in Van Nuys, no problem. But Judge Orton Powell was in his last term on the bench. He was retiring. That meant he no longer faced reelection pressures, like those from the private bar. To demonstrate his freedom — and possibly as a form of payback to those he had been politically beholden to for twelve years — he liked to mix things up in his courtroom. Sometimes the calendar went alphabetical, sometimes reverse alphabetical, sometimes by filing date. You never knew how the call would go until you got there. Often lawyers cooled thei
r heels for better than an hour in Powell’s courtroom. The judge liked that.

  “I think I can make eleven,” I said, without knowing for sure. “What’s the case?”

  “Guy’s gotta be big money. Beverly Hills address, family lawyer waltzing in here first thing. This is the real thing, Mick. They booked him on a half mil and his mother’s lawyer came in here today ready to sign over property in Malibu to secure it. Didn’t even ask about getting it lowered first. I guess they aren’t too worried about him running.”

  “Booked for what?” I asked.

  I kept my voice even. The scent of money in the water often leads to a feeding frenzy but I had taken care of Valenzuela on enough Christmases to know I had him on the hook exclusively. I could play it cool.

  “The cops booked him for ag-assault, GBI and attempted rape for starters,” the bondsman answered. “The DA hasn’t filed yet as far as I know.”

  The police usually overbooked the charges. What mattered was what the prosecutors finally filed and took to court. I always say cases go in like a lion and come out like a lamb. A case going in as attempted rape and aggravated assault with great bodily injury could easily come out as simple battery. It wouldn’t surprise me and it wouldn’t make for much of a franchise case. Still, if I could get to the client and make a fee agreement based on the announced charges, I could look good when the DA later knocked them down.

  “You got any of the details?” I asked.

  “He was booked last night. It sounds like a bar pickup gone bad. The family lawyer said the woman’s in it for the money. You know, the civil suit to follow the criminal case. But I’m not so sure. She got beat up pretty good from what I heard.”

  “What’s the family lawyer’s name?”

  “Hold on a sec. I’ve got his card here somewhere.”

  I looked out the window while waiting for Valenzuela to find the business card. I was two minutes from the Lancaster courthouse and twelve minutes from calendar call. I needed at least three of those minutes in between to confer with my client and give him the bad news.

  “Okay, here it is,” Valenzuela said. “Guy’s name is Cecil C. Dobbs, Esquire. Out of Century City. See, I told you. Money.”

  Valenzuela was right. But it wasn’t the lawyer’s Century City address that said money. It was the name. I knew of C. C. Dobbs by reputation and guessed that there wouldn’t be more than one or two names on his entire client list that didn’t have a Bel-Air or Holmby Hills address. His kind of client went home to the places where the stars seemed to reach down at night to touch the anointed.

  “Give me the client’s name,” I said.

  “That would be Louis Ross Roulet.”

  He spelled it and I wrote it down on a legal pad.

  “Almost like the spinning wheel but you pronounce it Roo-lay,” he said. “You going to be here, Mick?”

  Before responding I wrote the name C. C. Dobbs on the pad. I then answered Valenzuela with a question.

  “Why me?” I asked. “Was I asked for? Or did you suggest me?”

  I had to be careful with this. I had to assume Dobbs was the kind of lawyer who would go to the California bar in a heartbeat if he came across a criminal defense attorney paying off bondsmen for client referrals. In fact, I started wondering if the whole thing might be a bar sting operation that Valenzuela hadn’t picked up on. I wasn’t one of the bar’s favorite sons. They had come at me before. More than once.

  “I asked Roulet if he had a lawyer, you know? A criminal defense lawyer, and he said no. I told him about you. I didn’t push it. I just said you were good. Soft sell, you know?”

  “Was this before or after Dobbs came into it?”

  “No, before. Roulet called me this morning from the jail. They got him up on high power and he saw the sign, I guess. Dobbs showed up after that. I told him you were in, gave him your pedigree, and he was cool with it. He’ll be there at eleven. You’ll see how he is.”

  I didn’t speak for a long moment. I wondered how truthful Valenzuela was being with me. A guy like Dobbs would have had his own man. If it wasn’t his own forte, then he’d have had a criminal specialist in the firm or, at least, on standby. But Valenzuela’s story seemed to contradict this. Roulet came to him empty-handed. It told me that there was more to this case I didn’t know than what I did.

  “Hey, Mick, you there?” Valenzuela prompted.

  I made a decision. It was a decision that would eventually lead me back to Jesus Menendez and that I would in many ways come to regret. But at the moment it was made, it was just another choice made of necessity and routine.

  “I’ll be there,” I said into the phone. “I’ll see you at eleven.”

  I was about to close the phone when I heard Valenzuela’s voice come back at me.

  “And you’ll take care of me for this, right, Mick? I mean, you know, if this is the franchise.”

  It was the first time Valenzuela had ever sought assurance of a payback from me. It played further into my paranoia and I carefully constructed an answer that would satisfy him and the bar — if it was listening.

  “Don’t worry, Val. You’re on my Christmas list.”

  I closed the phone before he could say anything else and told my driver to drop me off at the employee entrance to the courthouse. The line at the metal detector would be shorter and quicker there and the security men usually didn’t mind the lawyers — the regulars — sneaking through so they could make court on time.

  As I thought about Louis Ross Roulet and the case and the possible riches and dangers that waited for me, I put the window back down so I could enjoy the morning’s last minute of clean, fresh air. It still carried the taste of promise.

  TWO

  The courtroom in Department 2A was crowded with lawyers negotiating and socializing on both sides of the bar when I got there. I could tell the session was going to start on time because I saw the bailiff seated at his desk. This meant the judge was close to taking the bench.

  In Los Angeles County the bailiffs are actually sworn deputy sheriffs who are assigned to the jail division. I approached the bailiff, whose desk was right next to the bar railing so citizens could come up to ask questions without having to violate the space assigned to the lawyers, defendants and courtroom personnel. I saw the calendar on the clipboard in front of him. I checked the nameplate on his uniform — R. Rodriguez — before speaking.

  “Roberto, you got my guy on there? Harold Casey?”

  The bailiff used his finger to start down the list on the call sheet but stopped quickly. This meant I was in luck.

  “Yeah, Casey. He’s second up.”

  “Alphabetical today, good. Do I have time to go back and see him?”

  “No, they’re bringing the first group in now. I just called. The judge is coming out. You’ll probably have a couple minutes to see your guy in the pen.”

  “Thank you.”

  I started to walk toward the gate when he called after me.

  “And it’s Reynaldo, not Roberto.”

  “Right, right. I’m sorry about that, Reynaldo.”

  “Us bailiffs, we all look alike, right?”

  I didn’t know if that was an attempt at humor or just a dig at me. I didn’t answer. I just smiled and went through the gate. I nodded at a couple lawyers I didn’t know and a couple that I did. One stopped me to ask how long I was going to be up in front of the judge because he wanted to gauge when to come back for his own client’s appearance. I told him I was going to be quick.

  During a calendar call incarcerated defendants are brought to the courtroom in groups of four and held in a wood-and-glass enclosure known as the pen. This allows the defendants to confer with their attorneys in the moments before their case is called for whatever matter is before the court.

  I got to the side of the pen just as the door from the interior holding cell was opened by a deputy, and the first four defendants on the docket were marched out. The last of the four to step into the pen was Harold Casey, my cl
ient. I took a position near the side wall so that we would have privacy on at least one side and signaled him over.

  Casey was big and tall, as they tend to recruit them in the Road Saints motorcycle gang — or club, as the membership prefers to be known. While being held in the Lancaster jail he had cut his hair and shaved, as I had requested, and he looked reasonably presentable, except for the tattoos that wrapped both arms and poked up above his collar. But there is only so much you can do. I don’t know much about the effect of tattoos on a jury but I suspect it’s not overly positive, especially when grinning skulls are involved. I do know that jurors in general don’t care for ponytails — on either the defendants or the lawyers who represent them.

  Casey, or Hard Case, as he was known in the club, was charged with cultivation, possession and sale of marijuana as well as other drug and weapons charges. In a predawn raid on the ranch where he lived and worked, sheriff’s deputies found a barn and Quonset hut complex that had been turned into an indoor growing facility. More than two thousand fully mature plants were seized along with sixty-three pounds of harvested marijuana packaged in various weights in plastic bags. Additionally, twelve ounces of crystal meth which the packagers sprinkled on the harvested crop to give it an extra kick were seized, along with a small arsenal of weapons, many of them later determined to be stolen.

  It would appear that Hard Case was fucked. The state had him cold. He was actually found asleep on a couch in the barn, five feet from the packaging table. Added to this, he had twice previously been convicted of drug offenses and was currently still on parole for the most recent. In the state of California the third time is the charm. Realistically, Casey was facing at least a decade in prison, even with good time.

  But what was unusual about Casey was that he was a defendant who was looking forward to trial and even to the likelihood of conviction. He had refused to waive his right to a speedy trial and now, less than three months after his arrest, eagerly wanted to bring it on. He was eager because it was likely that his only hope lay in an appeal of that likely conviction. Thanks to his attorney, Casey saw a glimmer of hope — that small, twinkling light that only a good attorney can bring to the darkness of a case like this. From this glimmer a case strategy was born that might ultimately work to free Casey. It was daring and would cost Casey time as he waited out the appeal, but he knew as well as I did that it was the only real shot he had.