Laurie begins by once again reciting the story of her friend's teenage daughter, who became a drug customer of Garcia's before running away from home. I've heard it all, but I let her go on. I often find it's better to let a client talk uninterrupted as much as possible; I get more information that way. It's strange to be thinking of Laurie as a client, but I'm getting used to it.
"You made a comment to me the other day," I say. "Something about knowing what Oscar's been up to recently."
She nods. "I've kept my eye on him from time to time."
"What exactly does that mean?"
"It means that when I've had time I've watched him, hoping he would make a mistake. Something that could get him sent away."
"You're not a cop anymore, Laurie."
"No, but I know a few." She can see I'm a little worried about this. "Andy, the guy is a slime. I have the right to watch him."
"Did you catch him doing anything?" I ask.
"Not that I could prove."
"What about personal contact? Did you have any?"
"No."
I feel like she's holding back, although she must know that wouldn't make any sense. The rest of the conversation consists more of her trying to get information from me than the other way around. She wants to know how the case is going, and even though it hasn't had time to go anywhere, I make myself sound upbeat. My goal is to be honest but not depressing. In this case, at least for now, that's not easy.
I'M UP AND SHOWERED BY SEVEN O'CLOCK THE NEXT morning, which is exactly the time that Edna shows up. I see her through the window; she has brought donuts and coffee for the early assembled press and is outside divvying it up. Obviously, there was no need for press-relations coaching from me; Wonder Woman picked it up on her own.
At nine o'clock I get a phone call from the court clerk informing me that the grand jury has handed down an indictment against Laurie. Dylan has been working fast. She also informs me that a trial judge has been assigned, and I am wanted at a meeting in one hour in his chambers. I start to argue about the inconvenience of this hastily called meeting when she tells me that the trial judge is Walter "Hatchet" Henderson.
I stop arguing. Hatchet could just as easily have given me ten minutes to get there, and held me in contempt if I was late. He is autocratic, obnoxious, and legendarily difficult for all lawyers, though I'm sure he scares Dylan more than me. Hatchet was the judge on the Miller case, and I was pleased--make that stunned--by the competence and fairness he demonstrated while conducting that trial.
Before I leave, Laurie reminds me of her one demand: that the trial begin as soon as possible. It's a very common feeling among the accused, especially the wrongly accused. This experience is so trying, so frightening, so humiliating, that the need to have it over as quickly as possible is overwhelming.
By the time I get to Hatchet's office Dylan is already there, kissing the judge's ass by marveling about how much weight Hatchet has lost on some diet. Lawyers instinctively try to kiss Hatchet's ass, but even though that ass has in fact gotten smaller during this diet, the tactic doesn't work. Hatchet does not respect ass-kissing attorneys. He also does not respect prosecuting attorneys, defense attorneys, outstanding attorneys, mediocre attorneys, or any attorneys.
"Good morning, Judge," I say.
"Let's do without the small talk, gentlemen. We've got a trial to conduct."
"Oh," I say, "I assumed we were changing defendants again."
"No," Dylan responds, "we're going to put this one away for a long time."
I laugh. "Dylan, I'm going to clean your clock."
Hatchet interrupts and berates us for our unprofessional conduct. He then takes out his calendar and opens the floor to discussion of a start date for the trial.
"I would suggest July fourteenth, Your Honor," Dylan says.
"That is unacceptable to the defense, Your Honor. We wish to invoke our right to a speedy trial. We would be looking at the middle of May."
Dylan is clearly surprised, mainly because he knows rushing is not in our best interest; it's an accepted truth that time is always on the defense's side. And besides, I had already agreed to the July 14 date when the defendant was Oscar. Dylan has no choice but to accede to our demand, however, since we are simply exercising our constitutional rights.
Dylan estimates that the prosecution case might take two weeks, and I say that I doubt we'll even need to mount a defense, but if we do, a week should do it.
Hatchet looks intently at the calendar, then stares at us. "My vacation begins on June twenty-eight."
I nod. "And I hope Your Honor has a wonderful time."
Dylan revisits the issue of bail, as I knew he would. I'm very concerned that Hatchet might revoke the bail and put Laurie in jail.
"I would not have ruled as Judge Timmerman did," Hatchet says. "It is a decision that makes me uncomfortable."
"The decision is wrong," Dylan agrees. "Almost without precedent in this county."
I won't get anywhere by arguing with Hatchet; all I can do is give him another point of view to consider. "I'm not going to defend Judge Timmerman's ruling, though it obviously is one I was pleased with. But there are new circumstances to consider."
He peers at me from behind his glasses. "And they are?"
"Her order has been followed, and there have been no negative consequences. Ms. Collins is safely contained, electronically monitored, and guarded by the police. The community is safe, and will remain so, and there is no risk of flight. Respectfully, sir, altering Judge Timmerman's order provides no benefit to anyone, while hampering Ms. Collins's considerable ability to aid in her own defense."
Dylan starts to argue some more, but Hatchet isn't listening. He is turning the issue over in his mind. My heart is pounding so hard I'm afraid Hatchet won't be able to hear over it.
Finally, after what seems like a couple of months, he nods. "Without a change in circumstances, I'm inclined to let Judge Timmerman's ruling stand." Then he looks at me. "Make sure there is no change in circumstances."
Hatchet dismisses us, and I permit myself a condescending smile at Dylan as I leave. I'm on a winning streak which won't last, but I might as well let Dylan know that I'm enjoying it.
As we had planned, Kevin is waiting for me at the bottom of the courthouse steps. He takes me over to a nearby coffee shop, where I am to meet Marcus Clark. I had asked Laurie and Kevin to each come up with a list of investigators to join our team for this case, and Marcus's name was the only one on both lists.
Marcus is late arriving, so Kevin uses the time to brief me on his background. Soon after Marcus had become an investigator, Kevin represented him on an assault charge: Marcus had broken a guy's nose in a bar fight. Kevin won the case with a claim of self-defense, which he has always considered one of his greatest victories. He tells me that I'll understand why when I see Marcus.
Marcus comes in moments later, and it's immediately obvious what Kevin was talking about. It is hard to imagine that Marcus could have acted in self-defense, because it's hard to imagine anyone being dumb enough to have attacked him.
Marcus is a thirty-year-old African-American, about five foot ten, with a bald head so shiny you could guide planes to a runway with it. His body is so sculpted, his muscles so perfectly formed, that the clothes he is wearing don't seem to impede a view of his body.
But Marcus's most distinguishing physical feature is his menacing facial expression. Fighters like Mike Tyson and Marvin Hagler were noted for cowing their opponents during the pre-fight instructions with the power and anger in their stares. Marcus makes Tyson and Hagler look like Kermit and Miss Piggy.
Marcus nods a couple of times as Kevin makes the introductions, but it's a few minutes before he says his momentous first words.
"Rye toast."
The waitress says, "Yes, sir," which seems to be the appropriate response to Marcus, no matter what he requests. My guess is that if the coffee shop didn't have any, the waitress would have gone outside, captured a rye, and slaughtered it herself.
I explain Laurie's basic situation to him, and when I finish, he simply says, "She is a good person."
I nod vigorously in agreement, which I would have done had he said the earth was an isosceles triangle. "Yes, she is. A really good person."
"I'll take the job," he says, despite my not having offered it. "A hundred an hour, plus expenses."