The Lincoln Lawyer

by Michael Connelly

  At 11:05 my home phone rang as I was standing in front of a mirror and fitting a Dodgers cap onto my head. I checked the caller ID before answering and saw that it was Lorna Taylor.

  “Why is your cell phone off?” she asked.

  “Because I’m off. I told you, no calls today. I’m going to the ballgame with Mish and I’m supposed to get going to meet him early.”

  “Who’s Mish?”

  “I mean Raul. Why are you bothering me?”

  I said it good-naturedly.

  “Because I think you are going to want to be bothered with this. The mail came in a little early today and with it you got a notice from the Second.”

  The Second District Court of Appeal reviewed all cases emanating from L.A. County. They were the first appellate hurdle on the way to the Supreme Court. But I didn’t think Lorna would be calling me to tell me I had lost an appeal.

  “Which case?”

  At any given time I usually have four or five cases on appeal to the Second.

  “One of your Road Saints. Harold Casey. You won!”

  I was shocked. Not at winning, but at the timing. I had tried to move quickly with the appeal. I had written the brief before the verdict had come in and paid extra for expedited daily transcripts from the trial. I filed the notice of appeal the day after the verdict and asked for an expedited review. Even still, I wasn’t expecting to hear anything on Casey for another two months.

  I asked Lorna to read the opinion and a smile widened on my face. The summary was literally a rewrite of my brief. The three-judge panel had agreed with me right down the line on my contention that the low flyover of the sheriff’s surveillance helicopter above Casey’s ranch constituted an invasion of privacy. The court overturned Casey’s conviction, saying that the search that led to the discovery of the hydroponic pot farm was illegal.

  The state would now have to decide whether to retry Casey and, realistically, a retrial was out of the question. The state would have no evidence, since the appeals court ruled everything garnered during the search of the ranch was inadmissible. The Second’s ruling was clearly a victory for the defense, and they don’t come that often.

  “Man, what a day for the underdog!”

  “Where is he, anyway?” Lorna asked.

  “He may still be at the reception center but they were moving him to Corcoran. Here’s what you do. Make about ten copies of the ruling and put them in an envelope and send it to Casey at Corcoran. You should have the address.”

  “Well, won’t they be letting him go?”

  “Not yet. His parole was violated after his arrest and the appeal doesn’t affect that. He won’t get out until he goes to the parole board and argues fruit of the poisonous tree, that he got violated because of an illegal search. It will probably take about six weeks for all that to work itself out.”

  “Six weeks? That’s unbelievable.”

  “Don’t do the crime if you can’t do the time.”

  I sang it like Sammy Davis did on that old television show.

  “Please don’t sing to me, Mick.”

  “Sorry.”

  “Why are we sending ten copies to him? Isn’t one enough?”

  “Because he’ll keep one for himself and spread the other nine around the prison and then your phone will start ringing. An attorney who can win on appeal is like gold in prison. They’ll come calling and you’re going to have to weed ’em out and find the ones who have family and can pay.”

  “You always have an angle, don’t you?”

  “I try to. Anything else happening?”

  “Just the usual. The calls you told me you didn’t want to hear about. Did you get in to see Glory Days yesterday at County?”

  “It’s Gloria Dayton and, yes, I got in to see her. She looks like she’s over the hump. She’s still got more than a month to go.”

  The truth was, Gloria Dayton looked better than over the hump. I hadn’t seen her so sharp and bright-eyed in years. I’d had a purpose for going down to County-USC Medical Center to talk to her, but seeing her on the downhill side of recovery was a nice bonus.

  As expected, Lorna was the doomsayer.

  “And how long will it last this time before she calls your number again and says, ‘I’m in jail. I need Mickey’?”

  She said the last part with a whiny, nasal impression of Gloria Dayton. It was quite accurate but it annoyed me anyway. Then she topped it with a little song to the tune of the Disney classic.

  “M-I-C . . . , see you real soon. K-E-Y . . . , why, because you never charge me! M-O-U-T-H. Mickey Mouth . . . Mickey Mouth, the lawyer every —”

  “Please don’t sing to me, Lorna.”

  She laughed into the phone.

  “I’m just making a point.”

  I was smiling but trying to keep it out of my voice.

  “Fine. I get it. I have to get going now.”

  “Well, have a great time . . . Mickey Mouth.”

  “You could sing that song all day and the Dodgers could lose twenty-zip to the Giants and I’d still have a great time. After hearing the news from you, what could go wrong?”

  After ending the call I went into my home office and got a cell number for Teddy Vogel, the outside leader of the Saints. I gave him the good news and suggested that he could probably pass it on to Hard Case faster than I could. There are Road Saints in every prison. They have a communication system the CIA and FBI might be able to learn something from. Vogel said he’d handle it. Then he said the ten grand he gave me the month before on the side of the road near Vasquez Rocks was a worthy investment.

  “I appreciate that, Ted,” I said. “Keep me in mind next time you need an attorney.”

  “Will do, Counselor.”

  He clicked off and I clicked off. I then grabbed my first baseman’s glove out of the hallway closet and headed out the front door.

  Having given Earl the day off with pay, I drove myself toward downtown and Dodger Stadium. Traffic was light until I got close. The home opener is always a sell-out, even though it is a day game on a weekday. The start of baseball season is a rite of spring that draws downtown workers by the thousands. It’s the only sporting event in laid-back L.A. where you see men all in stiff white shirts and ties. They’re all playing hooky. There is nothing like the start of a season, before all the one-run losses, pitching breakdowns and missed opportunities. Before reality sets in.

  I was the first one to the seats. We were three rows from the field in seats added to the stadium during the off-season. Levin must have busted a nut buying the tickets from one of the local brokers. At least it was probably deductible as a business entertainment expense.

  The plan was for Levin to get there early as well. He had called the night before and said he wanted some private time with me. Besides watching batting practice and checking out all the improvements the new owner had made to the stadium, we would discuss my visit with Gloria Dayton and Raul would give me the latest update on his various investigations relating to Louis Roulet.

  But Levin never made it for BP. The other four lawyers showed up—three of them in ties, having come from court—and we missed our chance to talk privately.

  I knew the other four from some of the boat cases we had tried together. In fact, the tradition of defense pros taking in Dodgers games together started with the boat cases. Under a wide-ranging mandate to stop drug flow to the United States, the U.S. Coast Guard had taken to stopping suspect vessels anywhere on the oceans. When they struck gold—or, that is, cocaine—they seized the vessels and crews. Many of the prosecutions were funneled to the U.S. District Court in Los Angeles. This resulted in prosecutions of sometimes twelve or more defendants at a time. Every defendant got his own lawyer, most of them appointed by the court and paid by Uncle Sugar. The cases were lucrative and steady and we had fun. Somebody had the idea of having case meetings at Dodger Stadium. One time we all pitched in and bought a private suite for a Cubs game. We actually did talk about the case for a few minutes dur
ing the seventh-inning stretch.

  The pre-game ceremonies started and there was no sign of Levin. Hundreds of doves were released from baskets on the field and they formed up, circled the stadium to loud cheering and then flew up and away. Shortly after, a B-2 stealth bomber buzzed the stadium to even louder applause. That was L.A. Something for everyone and a little irony to boot.

  The game started and still no Levin. I turned my cell phone on and tried to call him, even though it was hard to hear. The crowd was loud and boisterous, hopeful of a season that would not end in disappointment again. The call went to a message.

  “Mish, where you at, man? We’re at the game and the seats are fantastic, but we got one empty one. We’re waiting on you.”

  I closed the phone, looked at the others and shrugged.

  “I don’t know,” I said. “He didn’t answer his cell.”

  I left my phone on and put it back on my belt.

  Before the first inning was over I was regretting what I had said to Lorna about not caring if the Giants drilled us 20-zip. They built a 5-0 lead before the Dodgers even got their first bats of the season and the crowd grew frustrated early. I heard people complaining about the prices, the renovation and the overcommercialization of the stadium. One of the lawyers, Roger Mills, surveyed the surfaces of the stadium and remarked that the place was more crowded with corporate logos than a NASCAR race car.

  The Dodgers were able to bite into the lead, but in the fourth inning the wheels came off and the Giants chased Jeff Weaver with a three-run shot over the centerfield wall. I used the downtime during the pitching change to brag about how fast I had heard from the Second on the Casey case. The other lawyers were impressed, though one of them, Dan Daly, suggested that I had only received the quick appellate review because the three judges were on my Christmas list. I remarked to Daly that he had apparently missed the bar memo regarding juries’ distrust of lawyers with ponytails. His went halfway down his back.

  It was also during this lull in the game that I heard my phone ringing. I grabbed it off my hip and flipped it open without looking at the screen.

  “Raul?”

  “No, sir, this is Detective Lankford with the Glendale Police Department. Is this Michael Haller?”

  “Yes,” I said.

  “Do you have a moment?”

  “I have a moment but I am not sure how well I’ll be able to hear you. I’m at the Dodgers game. Can this wait until I can call you back?”

  “No, sir, it can’t. Do you know a man named Raul Aaron Levin? He’s a —”

  “Yes, I know him. What’s wrong?”

  “I’m afraid Mr. Levin is dead, sir. He’s been the victim of a homicide in his home.”

  My head dropped so low and so forward that I banged it into the back of the man seated in front of me. I then pulled back and held one hand to one ear and pressed the phone against the other. I blanked out everything around me.

  “What happened?”

  “We don’t know,” Lankford said. “That’s why we are here. It looks like he was working for you recently. Is there any chance you could come here to possibly answer some questions and assist us?”

  I blew out my breath and tried to keep my voice calm and modulated.

  “I’m on my way,” I said.

  TWENTY-THREE

  R aul Levin’s body was in the back room of his bungalow a few blocks off of Brand Boulevard. The room had likely been designed as a sunroom or maybe a TV room but Raul had turned it into his home office. Like me he’d had no need for a commercial space. His was not a walk-in business. He wasn’t even in the yellow pages. He worked for attorneys and got jobs by word of mouth. The five lawyers that were to join him at the baseball game were testimony to his skill and success.

  The uniformed cops who had been told to expect me made me wait in the front living room until the detectives could come from the back and talk to me. A uniformed officer stood by in the hallway in case I decided to make a mad dash for the back room or the front door. He was in position to handle it either way. I sat there waiting and thinking about my friend.

  I had decided on the drive from the stadium that I knew who had killed Raul Levin. I didn’t need to be led to the back room to see or hear the evidence to know who the killer was. Deep down I knew that Raul had gotten too close to Louis Roulet. And I was the one who had sent him. The only question left for me was what was I going to do about it.

  After twenty minutes two detectives came from the back of the house and into the living room. I stood up and we talked while standing. The man identified himself as Lankford, the detective who had called me. He was older, the veteran. His partner was a woman named Sobel. She didn’t look like she had been investigating homicides for very long.

  We didn’t shake hands. They were wearing rubber gloves. They also had paper booties over their shoes. Lankford was chewing gum.

  “Okay, this is what we’ve got,” he said gruffly. “Levin was in his office, sitting in his desk chair. The chair was turned from the desk, so he was facing the intruder. He was shot one time in the chest. Something small, looks like a twenty-two to me but we’ll wait on the coroner for that.”

  Lankford tapped his chest dead center. I could hear the hard sound of a bullet-proof vest beneath his shirt.

  I corrected him. He had pronounced the name here and on the phone earlier as Levine. I said the name rhymed with heaven.

  “Levin, then,” he said, getting it right. “Anyway, after the shot, he tried to get up or just fell forward to the floor. He expired facedown on the floor. The intruder ransacked the office and we are currently at a loss to determine what he was looking for or what he might have taken.”

  “Who found him?” I asked.

  “A neighbor who found his dog running loose. The intruder must have let the dog out before or after the killing. The neighbor found it wandering around, recognized it and brought it back. She found the front door open, came in and found the body. It didn’t look like much of a watchdog, you ask me. It’s one of those little hair balls.”

  “A shih tzu,” I said.

  I had seen the dog before and heard Levin talk about it, but I couldn’t remember its name. It was something like Rex or Bronco—a name that belied the dog’s small stature.

  Sobel referred to a notebook she was holding before continuing the questioning.

  “We haven’t found anything that can lead us to next of kin,” she said. “Do you know if he had any family?”

  “I think his mother lives back east. He was born in Detroit. Maybe she’s there. I don’t think they had much of a relationship.”

  She nodded.

  “We have found his time and hours calendar. He’s got your name on almost every day for the last month. Was he working on a specific case for you?”

  I nodded.

  “A couple different cases. One mostly.”

  “Do you care to tell us about it?” she asked.

  “I have a case about to go to trial. Next month. It’s an attempted rape and murder. He was running down the evidence and helping me to get ready.”

  “You mean helping you try to backdoor the investigation, huh?” Lankford said.

  I realized then that Lankford’s politeness on the phone was merely sweet talk to get me to come to the house. He would be different now. He even seemed to be chewing his gum more aggressively than when he had first entered the room.

  “Whatever you want to call it, Detective. Everybody is entitled to a defense.”

  “Yeah, sure, and they’re all innocent, only it’s their parents’ fault for taking them off the tit too soon,” Lankford said. “Whatever. This guy Levin was a cop before, right?”

  He was back to mispronouncing the name.

  “Yes, he was LAPD. He was a detective on a Crimes Against Persons squad but he retired after twelve years on the force. I think it was twelve years. You’ll have to check. And it’s Levin.”

  “Right, as in heaven. I guess he couldn’t hack working for t
he good guys, huh?”

  “Depends on how you look at it, I guess.”

  “Can we get back to your case?” Sobel asked. “What is the name of the defendant?”

  “Louis Ross Roulet. The trial’s in Van Nuys Superior before Judge Fullbright.”

  “Is he in custody?”

  “No, he’s out on a bond.”

  “Any animosity between Roulet and Mr. Levin?”

  “Not that I know of.”

  I had decided. I was going to deal with Roulet in the way I knew how. I was sticking with the plan I had concocted—with the help of Raul Levin. Drop a depth charge into the case and make sure to get clear. I felt I owed it to my friend Mish. He would have wanted it this way. I wouldn’t farm it out. I would handle it personally.

  “Could this have been a gay thing?” Lankford asked.

  “What? Why do you say that?”

  “Prissy dog and then all around the house, he’s only got pictures of guys and the dog. Everywhere. On the walls, next to the bed, on the piano.”

  “Look closely, Detective. It is probably one guy. His partner died a few years ago. I don’t think he’s been with anybody since then.”

  “Died of AIDS, I bet.”

  I didn’t confirm that for him. I just waited. On the one hand, I was annoyed with Lankford’s manner. On the other hand, I figured that his torch-the-ground method of investigation would preclude him from being able to tag Roulet with this. That was fine with me. I only needed to stall him for five or six weeks and then I wouldn’t care if they put it together or not. I’d be finished with my own play by then.

  “Did this guy go out patrolling the gay joints?” Lankford asked.

  I shrugged.

  “I have no idea. But if it was a gay murder, why was his office ransacked and not the rest of the house?”

  Lankford nodded. He seemed to be momentarily taken aback by the logic of my question. But then he hit me with a surprise punch.

  “So where were you this morning, Counselor?”