I nodded. We were finished. I put a credit card on the tab and pulled out my cell phone to call Patrick. Calling my driver reminded me of something.

“Cisco, there’s one other thing I want you to try to do today.”

Cisco looked at me, happy to move on from the idea that I had a better source on the investigation than he did.

“Go to Vincent’s liquidator and see if he’s sitting on one of Patrick’s surfboards. If he is, I want it back for Patrick.”

Cisco nodded.

“I can do that. No problem.”

Twenty-four

Waylaid by the slow-moving elevators in the CCB, I was four minutes late when I walked into Judge Holder’s courtroom and hustled through the clerk’s corral toward the hallway leading to her chambers. I didn’t see anyone and the door was closed. I knocked lightly and I heard the judge call for me to enter.

She was behind her desk and wearing her black robe. This told me she probably had a hearing in open court scheduled soon and my being late was not a good thing.

“Mr. Haller, our meeting was set for ten o’clock. I believe you were given proper notice of this.”

“Yes, Your Honor, I know. I’m sorry. The elevators in this building are-”

“All lawyers take the same elevators and most seem to be on time for meetings with me.”

“Yes, Your Honor.”

“Did you bring your checkbook?”

“I think so, yes.”

“Well, we can do this one of two ways,” the judge said. “I can hold you in contempt of court, fine you and let you explain yourself to the California bar, or we can go informal and you take out your checkbook and make a donation to the Make-A-Wish Foundation. It’s one of my favorite charities. They do good things for sick children.”

This was incredible. I was being fined for being four minutes late. The arrogance of some judges was amazing. I somehow was able to swallow my outrage and speak.

“I like the idea of helping out sick children, Your Honor,” I said. “How much do I make it out for?”

“As much as you want to contribute. And I will even send it in for you.”

She pointed to a stack of paperwork on the left side of her desk. I saw two other checks, most likely stroked out by two other poor bastards who had run afoul of the judge this week. I leaned down and rummaged through the front pocket of my backpack until I found my checkbook. I wrote a check for $250 to Make-A-Wish, tore it out and handed it across the desk. I watched the judge’s eyes as she looked at the amount I was donating. She nodded approvingly and I knew I was all right.

“Thank you, Mr. Haller. They’ll be sending you a receipt for your taxes in the mail. It will go to the address on the check.”

“Like you said, they do good work.”

“Yes, they do.”

The judge put the check on top of the two others and then turned her attention back to me.

“Now, before we go over the cases, let me ask you a question,” she said. “Do you know if the police are making any headway on the investigation of Mr. Vincent’s death?”

I hesitated a moment, wondering what I should be telling the chief judge of the superior court.

“I’m not really in the loop on that, Judge,” I said. “But I was shown a photograph of a man I assume they’re looking at as a suspect.”

“Really? What kind of photo?”

“Like a surveillance shot from out on the street. A guy, and it looks like he has a gun. I think they matched it up timewise to the shooting in the garage.”

“Did you recognize the man?”

I shook my head.

“No, the shot was too grainy. It looked like he might have had a disguise on anyway.”

“When was this?”

“The night of the shooting.”

“No, I mean, when was it that you were shown this photo?”

“Just this morning. Detective Bosch came to the office with it.”

The judge nodded. We were quiet for a moment and then the judge got to the point of the meeting.

“Okay, Mr. Haller, why don’t we talk about clients and cases now?”

“Yes, Your Honor.”

I reached down and unzipped my bag, taking out the scorecard Lorna had prepared for me.

Judge Holder kept me at her desk for the next hour while I went over every case and client, detailing the status and conversations I’d had with each. By the time she finally let me go, I was late for my eleven o’clock hearing in Judge Stanton’s chambers.

I left Holder’s court and didn’t bother with the elevators. I hit the exit stairs and charged up two flights to the floor where Stanton’s courtroom was located. I was running eight minutes late and wondered if it was going to cost me another donation to another judge’s favorite charity.

The courtroom was empty but Stanton’s clerk was in her corral. She pointed with a pen to the open door to the hallway leading to the judge’s chambers.

“They’re waiting for you,” she said.

I quickly moved by her and down the hall. The door to the chambers was open and I saw the judge sitting behind his desk. To his left rear side was a stenographer and across the desk from him were three chairs. Walter Elliot was sitting in the chair to the right, the middle chair was empty and Jeffrey Golantz was in the third. I had never met the prosecutor before but he was recognizable because I had seen his face on TV and in the newspapers. In the last few years, he had successfully handled a series of high-profile cases and was making a name for himself. He was the undefeated up-and-comer in the DA’s Office.

I loved going up against undefeated prosecutors. Their confidence often betrayed them.

“Sorry I’m late, Your Honor,” I said as I slid into the empty seat. “Judge Holder called me into a hearing and she ran long.”

I hoped that mentioning the chief judge as the reason for my tardiness would keep Stanton from further assaulting my checkbook and it seemed to work.

“Let’s go on the record now,” he said.

The stenographer leaned forward and put her fingers on the keys of her machine.

“In the matter of California versus Walter Elliot, we are in chambers today for a status conference. Present is the defendant, along with Mr. Golantz for the state and Mr. Haller, who is here in the late Mr. Vincent’s stead.”

The judge had to break there to give the stenographer the proper spellings of all the names. He spoke in an authoritative voice that a decade on the bench often gives a jurist. The judge was a handsome man with a full head of bristly gray hair. He was in good shape, the black robe doing little to disguise his well-developed shoulders and chest.

“So,” he then said, “we’re scheduled in this matter for voir dire next Thursday – a week from today – and I notice, Mr. Haller, that I have received no motion from you to continue the matter while you get up to speed on the case.”

“We don’t want a delay,” Elliot said.

I reached over and put my hand on my client’s forearm and shook my head.

“Mr. Elliot, in this session I want you to let your lawyer do the talking,” the judge said.

“Sorry, Your Honor,” I said. “But the message is the same whether from me or directly from Mr. Elliot. We want no delay. I have spent the week getting up to speed and I will be prepared to begin jury selection next Thursday.”

The judge squinted his eyes at me.

“You sure about that, Mr. Haller?”

“Absolutely. Mr. Vincent was a good lawyer and he kept thorough records. I understand the strategy he built and will be ready to go on Thursday. The case has my full attention. That of my staff as well.”

The judge leaned back in his high-backed chair and swiveled side to side as he thought. He finally looked at Elliot.

“Mr. Elliot, it turns out you do get to speak after all. I would like to hear directly from you that you are in full agreement with your new attorney here and that you understand the risk you run, bringing in a fresh lawyer so close to the start of trial. It’s your freedom at stake here, sir. Let’s hear what you have to say about it.”