The Gods of Guilt(23)

“You have her number memorized? Most people don’t remember numbers anymore because they’re on speed dial on their cell.”

“If I put everybody’s number in my phone, the police would have all of that right now. We change phones and numbers often, and I commit them all to memory. It’s the only safe way to do it.”

I nodded. I was impressed.

“Okay, we’re good, then. Let’s go out and see the judge.”

“You said a couple more things.”

“Oh, yeah.”

I reached into my coat pocket and pulled out a short stack of cards. I handed them to him through the bars.

“Put these on the bench over there,” I said.

“You’re kidding,” he said.

“No, people are always looking for good representation. Especially when they get out there and meet the deputy PD who’s handling their case along with about three hundred others’. Spread them out a little bit on the bench and I’ll see you in the courtroom.”

“Whatever.”

“And remember, you can talk to whoever you want inside about your lawyer, but don’t talk to anybody about your case. No one, or it will come back to bite you on the ass. I promise you that.”

“Got it.”

“Good.”

Arraignment court is the place where the criminal justice system becomes a feeding frenzy, where those who are caught in the net are delivered to market. I stepped out from the holding facility and into a morass of defense lawyers, prosecutors, investigators, and all lines of support staff, all moving in an unchoreographed dance presided over by Judge Mary Elizabeth Mercer. It was her job to make good on the constitutional guarantee to swiftly bring those accused of a crime to court to be informed of the charges against them and assigned counsel if they have not made such arrangements themselves. In practice, this meant that each of the accused had but a few minutes before the judge prior to beginning the long and usually torturous journey through the system.

The attorney tables in first-appearance court were large boardroom-size tables designed so that several lawyers could be seated at once as they prepared for their cases and clients to be called. Still more defense lawyers stood and milled about in the corral to the left of the judge’s bench, where defendants were brought in from the holding cells in groups of six at a time. These lawyers would stand with their clients for the reading of the charges and then the scheduling of an arraignment hearing, where the accused would formally enter a plea. To an outsider—and this included those accused of crimes and their families packed into the wooden pews of the courtroom’s gallery—it was hard to keep track of or understand what was going on. They could only know that this was the justice system at work and that it would now take over their lives.

I went to the bailiff’s desk where the custody call list was on a clipboard. The bailiff had crossed out the first thirty names on the list. Judge Mercer was efficiently moving through the morning shift. I saw Andre La Cosse’s name next to the number thirty-eight. That meant one group of six was ahead of his group. And that gave me time to find a spot to sit down and check my messages.

All nine chairs at the defense table were taken. I scanned the line of chairs running along the railing that separated the gallery from the court’s work area and spotted one opening. As I made my way to it, I recognized one of the men I would be sitting next to. He wasn’t a lawyer. He was a cop, and we had a past history that coincidentally had been brought up that morning at the staff meeting. He recognized me, too, and grimaced as I sat down next to him.

We spoke in whispers so as not to draw the attention of the judge.

“Well, well, well, if it isn’t Mickey Mouth, great courtroom orator and defender of douche bags.”

I ignored the shots. I was used to it from cops.

“Detective Lankford, long time no see.”

Lee Lankford was one of the Glendale PD homicide detectives who investigated the murder of my former investigator Raul Levin. The reasons for Lankford’s grimace and insults and the friction that still obviously existed between us were many. First, Lankford seemed to have a genetically bred hatred of all lawyers. Then there was the little rub that came when he wrongly accused me of Levin’s murder. Of course it didn’t help our relationship when I eventually proved him wrong by solving the case for him.

“You’re a long way from Glendale,” I offered as I was pulling out my phone. “Don’t you guys do your arraignments up there in Glendale Superior?”

“As usual, Haller, you’re behind the times. I don’t work for Glendale anymore. I retired.”