The Lincoln Lawyer: A Novel (31 page)

The last thing left to consider was the interruption of the dog barking and that was easy. I had been to Levin’s home before
and I knew the dog was a high-strung yapper. Every time I had come to the house, I had heard the dog start barking before
I had even knocked on the door. The barking in the background on the phone message and Levin hurriedly ending the call told
me someone was coming to his door. He had a visitor and it may very well have been his killer.

I thought about things for a few moments and decided that the timing of the call was something I could not in good conscience
keep from the police. The contents of the message would raise new questions that I might have difficulty answering, but that
was outweighed by the value of the call’s timing. I went into the bedroom and dug through the pockets of the blue jeans I
had worn the day before to the game. In one of the back pockets I found the ticket stub from the game and the business cards
Lankford and Sobel had given me at the end of my visit to Levin’s house.

I chose Sobel’s card and noticed it only said
Detective Sobel
on it. No first name. I wondered why that was as I made the call. Maybe she was like me, with two different business cards
in alternate pockets. One with her complete name in one, one with the more formal name in the other.

She answered the call right away and I decided to see what I could get from her before I gave her what I had.

“Anything new on the investigation?” I asked.

“Not a lot. Not a lot that I can share with you. We are sort of organizing the evidence we have. We got some ballistics back
and—”

“They already did an autopsy?” I said. “That was quick.”

“No, the autopsy won’t be until tomorrow.”

“Then how’d you get ballistics already?”

She didn’t answer but then I figured it out.

“You found a casing. He was shot with an automatic that ejected the shell.”

“You’re good, Mr. Haller. Yes, we found a cartridge.”

“I’ve done a lot of trials. And call me Mickey. It’s funny, the killer ransacked the place but didn’t pick up the shell.”

“Maybe that’s because it rolled across the floor and fell into a heating vent. The killer would have needed a screwdriver
and a lot of time.”

I nodded. It was a lucky break. I couldn’t count the number of times clients had gone down because the cops had caught a lucky
break. Then again, there were a lot of clients who walked because they caught the break. It all evened out in the end.

“So, was your partner right about it being a twenty-two?”

She paused before answering, deciding whether to cross some threshold of revealing case information to me, an involved party
in the case but the enemy—a defense lawyer—nonetheless.

“He was right. And thanks to the markings on the cartridge, we even know the exact gun we are looking for.”

I knew from questioning ballistics experts and firearms examiners in trials over the years that marks left on bullet casings
during
the firing process could identify the weapon even without the weapon in hand. With an automatic, the firing pin, breech block,
ejector and extractor all leave signature marks on the bullet casing in the split second the weapon is fired. Analyzing the
four markings in unison can lead to a specific make and model of the weapon being identified.

“It turns out that Mr. Levin owned a twenty-two himself,” Sobel said. “But we found it in a closet safe in the house and it’s
not a Woodsman. The one thing we have not found is his cell phone. We know he had one but we—”

“He was talking to me on it right before he was killed.”

There was a moment of silence.

“You told us yesterday that the last time you spoke to him was Friday night.”

“That’s right. But that’s why I am calling. Raul called me yesterday morning at eleven-oh-seven and left me a message. I didn’t
get it until today because after I left you people yesterday I just went out and got drunk. Then I went to sleep and didn’t
realize I had a message from him till right now. He called about one of the cases he was working on for me sort of on the
side. It’s an appellate thing and the client’s in prison. A no-rush thing. Anyway, the content of the message isn’t important
but the call helps with the timing. And get this, while he’s leaving the message, you hear the dog start to bark. It did that
whenever somebody came to the door. I know because I’d been there before and the dog always barked.”

Again she hit me with some silence before responding.

“I don’t understand something, Mr. Haller.”

“What’s that?”

“You told us yesterday you were at home until around noon before you left for the game. And now you say that Mr. Levin left
a message for you at eleven-oh-seven. Why didn’t you answer the phone?”

“Because I was on it and I don’t have call waiting. You can check my records, you’ll see I got a call from my office manager,
Lorna Taylor. I was talking to her when Raul called. Without call
waiting I didn’t know. And of course he thought I had already left for the game so he just left a message.”

“Okay, I understand. We’ll probably want your permission in writing to look at those records.”

“No problem.”

“Where are you now?”

“I’m at home.”

I gave her the address and she said that she and her partner were coming.

“Make it soon. I have to leave for court in about an hour.”

“We’re coming right now.”

I closed the phone feeling uneasy. I had defended a dozen murderers over the years and that had brought me into contact with
a number of homicide investigators. But I had never been questioned myself about a murder before. Lankford and now Sobel seemed
to be suspicious of every answer I could give. It made me wonder what they knew that I didn’t.

I straightened up things on the desk and closed my briefcase. I didn’t want them seeing anything I didn’t want them to see.
I then walked through my house and checked every room. My last stop was the bedroom. I made the bed and put the CD case for
Wreckrium for Lil’ Demon
back in the night table drawer. And then it hit me. I sat on the bed as I remembered something Sobel had said. She had made
a slip and at first it had gone right by me. She had said that they had found Raul Levin’s .22 caliber gun but it was not
the murder weapon. She said it was not a Woodsman.

She had inadvertently revealed to me the make and model of the murder weapon. I knew the Woodsman was an automatic pistol
manufactured by Colt. I knew this because I owned a Colt Woodsman Sport Model. It had been bequeathed to me many years ago
by my father. Upon his death. Once old enough to handle it, I had never even taken it out of its wooden box.

I got up from the bed and went to the walk-in closet. I moved as if in a heavy fog. My steps were tentative and I put my hand
out to the wall and then the door casement as if needing my bearings.
The polished wooden box was on the shelf where it was supposed to be. I reached up with both hands to bring it down and then
walked it out to the bedroom.

I put the box down on the bed and flipped open the brass latch. I raised the lid and pulled away the oilcloth covering.

The gun was gone.

Monday, May 23

T
he check from Roulet cleared. On the first day of trial I had more money in my bank account than I’d ever had in my life.
If I wanted, I could drop the bus benches and go with billboards. I could also take the back cover of the yellow pages instead
of the half page I had inside. I could afford it. I finally had a franchise case and it had paid off. In terms of money, that
is. The loss of Raul Levin would forever make this franchise a losing proposition.

We had been through three days of jury selection and were now ready to put on the show. The trial was scheduled for another
three days at the most—two for the prosecution and one for the defense. I had told the judge that I would need a day to put
my case before the jury, but the truth was, most of my work would be done during the prosecution’s presentation.

There’s always an electric feel to the start of a trial. A nervousness that attacks deep in the gut. So much is on the line.
Reputation, personal freedom, the integrity of the system itself. Something about having those twelve strangers sit in judgment
of your life and work always jumps things up inside. And I am referring to me, the defense attorney—the judgment of the defendant
is a whole other thing. I’ve never gotten used to it, and the truth is, I never want to. I can only liken it to the anxiety
and tension of standing at the front
of a church on your wedding day. I’d had that experience twice and I was reminded of it every time a judge called a trial
to order.

Though my experience in trial work severely outweighed my opponent’s, there was no mistake about where I stood. I was one
man standing before the giant maw of the system. Without a doubt I was the underdog. Yes, it was true that I faced a prosecutor
in his first major felony trial. But that advantage was evened and then some by the power and might of the state. At the prosecutor’s
command were the forces of the entire justice system. And against this all I had was myself. And a guilty client.

I sat next to Louis Roulet at the defense table. We were alone. I had no second and no investigator behind me—out of some
strange loyalty to Raul Levin I had not hired a replacement. I didn’t really need one, either. Levin had given me everything
I needed. The trial and how it played out would serve as a last testament to his skills as an investigator.

In the first row of the gallery sat C. C. Dobbs and Mary Alice Windsor. In accordance with a pretrial ruling, the judge was
allowing Roulet’s mother to be in the courtroom during opening statements only. Because she was listed as a defense witness,
she would not be allowed to listen to any of the testimony that followed. She would remain in the hallway outside, with her
loyal lapdog Dobbs at her side, until I called her to the stand.

Also in the first row but not seated next to them was my own support section: my ex-wife Lorna Taylor. She had gotten dressed
up in a navy suit and white blouse. She looked beautiful and could have blended in easily with the phalanx of female attorneys
who descended on the courthouse every day. But she was there for me and I loved her for it.

The rest of the rows in the gallery were sporadically crowded. There were a few print reporters there to grab quotes from
the opening statements and a few attorneys and citizen onlookers. No TV had shown up. The trial had not yet drawn more than
cursory attention from the public, and this was good. This meant our strategy of publicity containment had worked well.

Roulet and I were silent as we waited for the judge to take the bench and order the jury into the box so that we could begin.
I was attempting to calm myself by rehearsing what I wanted to say to the jurors. Roulet was staring straight ahead at the
State of California seal affixed to the front of the judge’s bench.

The courtroom clerk took a phone call, said a few words and then hung up.

“Two minutes, people,” he said loudly. “Two minutes.”

When a judge called ahead to the courtroom, that meant people should be in their positions and ready to go. We were. I glanced
over at Ted Minton at the prosecution’s table and saw he was doing the same thing that I was doing. Calming himself by rehearsing.
I leaned forward and studied the notes on the legal pad in front of me. Then Roulet unexpectedly leaned forward and almost
right into me. He spoke in a whisper, even though it wasn’t necessary yet.

“This is it, Mick.”

“I know.”

Since the death of Raul Levin, my relationship with Roulet had been one of cold endurance. I put up with him because I had
to. But I saw him as little as possible in the days and weeks before the trial, and spoke to him as little as possible once
it started. I knew the one weakness in my plan was my own weakness. I feared that any interaction with Roulet could lead me
into acting out my anger and desire to personally, physically avenge my friend. The three days of jury selection had been
torture. Day after day I had to sit right next to him and listen to his condescending comments about prospective jurors. The
only way I got through it was to pretend he wasn’t there.

“You ready?” he asked me.

“Trying to be,” I said. “Are you?”

“I’m ready. But I wanted to tell you something before we began.”

I looked at him. He was too close to me. It would have been invasive even if I loved him and not hated him. I leaned back.

“What?”

He followed me, leaning back next to me.

“You’re my lawyer, right?”

I leaned forward, trying to get away.

“Louis, what is this? We’ve been together on this more than two months and now we’re sitting here with a jury picked and ready
for trial. You have paid me more than a hundred and fifty grand and you have to ask if I’m your lawyer? Of course I’m your
lawyer. What is it? What is wrong?”

“Nothing’s wrong.”

He leaned forward and continued.

“I mean, like, if you’re my lawyer, I can tell you stuff and you have to hold it as a secret, even if it’s a crime I tell
you about. More than one crime. It’s covered by the attorney-client relationship, right?”

I felt the low rumbling of upset in my stomach.

“Yes, Louis, that’s right—unless you are going to tell me about a crime about to be committed. In that case I can be relieved
of the code of ethics and can inform the police so they can stop the crime. In fact, it would be my duty to inform them. A
lawyer is an officer of the court. So what is it that you want to tell me? You just heard we got the two-minute warning. We’re
about to start here.”

“I’ve killed people, Mick.”

I looked at him for a moment.

“What?”

“You heard me.”

He was right. I had heard him. And I shouldn’t have acted surprised. I already knew he had killed people. Raul Levin was among
them and he had even used my gun—though I hadn’t figured out how he had defeated the GPS bracelet on his ankle. I was just
surprised he had decided to tell me in such a matter-of-fact manner two minutes before his trial was called to order.