“It’s all right, Patrick. Thank you for being honest. What did the guy say when you pawned it?”

“He said he’d only give me four bills because the chain was gold but he didn’t think the diamonds were legit. I told him he was full of shit but what could I do? I took the money and went down to TJ. I needed the tabs and so I took what he was giving. I was so messed up on the stuff, I didn’t care.”

“What’s the name of the girl? It’s not in the file.”

“Mandolin, like the instrument. Her parents call her Mandy.”

“Have you talked to her since you were arrested?”

“No, man. We’re done.”

Now the eyes in the mirror looked sad and humiliated.

“Stupid,” Henson said. “The whole thing was stupid.”

I thought about things for a moment and then reached into my jacket pocket and pulled out a Polaroid photograph. I handed it over the seat and tapped Patrick on the shoulder with it.

“Take a look at that.”

He took the photo and held it on top of the steering wheel while he looked at it.

“What the hell happened to you?” he asked.

“I tripped over a curb and did a nice face plant in front of my house. Broke a tooth and my nose, opened up my forehead pretty good, too. They took that picture for me in the ER. To carry around as a reminder.”

“Of what?”

“I had just gotten out of my car after driving my eleven-year-old daughter home to her mother. By then I was up to three hundred twenty milligrams of OxyContin a day. Crushing and snorting first thing in the morning, except for me, the mornings were the afternoon.”

I let him register that for a few moments before continuing.

“So, Patrick, you think what you did was stupid? I was driving my little girl around on three hundred twenty migs of hillbilly heroin.”

Now I shook my head.

“There’s nothing you can do about the past, Patrick. Except keep it there.”

He was staring directly at me in the mirror.

“I’m going to help you get through the legal stuff,” I said. “It’s up to you to do the rest. And the rest is the hard part. But you already know that.”

He nodded.

“Anyway, I see a ray of light here, Patrick. Something Jerry Vincent didn’t see.”

“What is it?”

“The victim’s husband gave her that necklace. His name is Roger Vogler and he’s a big supporter of lots of elected people in the county.”

“Yeah, he’s big into politics. Mandolin told me that. They hold fund-raisers and stuff at the house.”

“Well, if the diamonds on that necklace are phony, he’s not going to want that coming up in court. Especially if his wife doesn’t know.”

“But how’s he gonna stop it?”

“He’s a contributor, Patrick. His contributions helped elect at least four members of the county board of supervisors. The county supervisors control the budget of the District Attorney’s Office. The DA is prosecuting you. It’s a food chain. If Dr. Vogler wants to send a message, believe me, it will be sent.”

Henson nodded. He was beginning to see the light.

“The motion I’m going to file requests that we be allowed to independently examine and appraise the evidence, to wit, the diamond necklace. You never know, that word ‘appraise’ may stir things up. We’ll just have to sit back and see what happens.”

“Do we go to court to file it?”

“No. I’m going to write this thing up right now and send it to the court in an e-mail.”

“That’s cool!”

“The beauty of the Internet.”

“Thanks, Mr. Haller.”

“You’re welcome, Patrick. Can I have my picture back now?”

He handed it over the seat and I took a look at it. I had a marble under my lip, and my nose was pointing in the wrong direction. There was also a bloody friction abrasion on my forehead. The eyes were the toughest part to study. Dazed and lost, staring unsteadily at the camera. This was me at my lowest point.

I put the photo back in my pocket for safekeeping.

We drove in silence for the next fifteen minutes while I finished the motion, went online and sent it. It was definitely a shot across the prosecution’s bow and it felt good. The Lincoln lawyer was back on the beat. The Lone Ranger was riding again.

I made sure I looked up from the computer when we hit the tunnel that marks the end of the freeway and dumps out onto the Pacific Coast Highway. I cracked the window open. I always loved the feeling I got when I’d swing out of the tunnel and see and smell the ocean.

We followed the PCH as it took us north to Malibu. It was hard for me to go back to the computer when I had the blue Pacific right outside my office window. I finally gave up, lowered the window all the way and just rode.

Once we got past the mouth of Topanga Canyon I started seeing packs of surfers on the swells. I checked Patrick and saw him taking glances out toward the water.

“It said in the file you did your rehab at Crossroads in Antigua,” I said.

“Yeah. The place Eric Clapton started.”

“Nice?”

“As far as those places go, I suppose.”

“True. Any waves there?”

“None to speak of. I didn’t get much of a chance to use a board anyway. Did you do rehab?”

“Yeah, in Laurel Canyon.”

“That place all the stars go to?”

“It was close to home.”

“Yeah, well, I went the other way. I was as far from my friends and my home as possible. It worked.”

“You thinking about going back into surfing?”

He glanced out the window before answering. A dozen surfers in wet suits were straddling their boards out there, waiting on the next set.

“I don’t think so. At least not on a professional level. My shoulder’s shot.”

I was about to ask what he needed his shoulder for when he continued his answer.

“The paddling’s one thing but the key thing is getting up. I lost my move when I fucked up my shoulder. Excuse the language.”

“That’s okay.”

“Besides, I’m taking things one day at a time. They taught you that in Laurel Canyon, didn’t they?”

“They did. But surfing’s a one-day-at-a-time, one-wave-at-a-time sort of thing, isn’t it?”

He nodded and I watched his eyes. They kept tripping to the mirror and looking back at me.

“What do you want to ask me, Patrick?”

“Um, yeah, I had a question. You know how Vincent kept my fish and put it on the wall?”

“Yeah.”

“Well, I was, uh, wondering if he kept any of my boards somewhere.”

I opened his file again and looked through it until I found the liquidator’s report. It listed twelve surfboards and the prices obtained for them.

“You gave him twelve boards, right?”

“Yeah, all of them.”

“Well, he gave them to his liquidator.”

“What’s that?”

“It’s a guy he used when he took assets from clients – you know, jewelry, property, cars, mostly – and would turn them into cash to be applied toward his fee. According to the report here, the liquidator sold all twelve of them, took twenty percent and gave Vincent forty-eight hundred dollars.”

Patrick nodded his head but didn’t say anything. I watched him for a few moments and then looked back at the liquidator’s inventory sheet. I remembered that Patrick had said in that first phone call that the two long boards were the most valuable. On the inventory, there were two boards described as ten feet long. Both were made by One World in Sarasota, Florida. One sold for $1,200 to a collector and the other for $400 on eBay, the online auction site. The disparity between the two sales made me think the eBay sale was bogus. The liquidator had probably sold the board to himself cheap. He would then turn around and sell it at a profit he’d keep for himself. Everybody’s got an angle. Including me. I knew that if he hadn’t resold the board yet, then I still had a shot at it.

“What if I could get you one of the long boards back?” I asked.

“That would be awesome! I just wish I had kept one, you know?”

“No promises. But I’ll see what I can do.”