The Gods of Guilt(61)

“Excuse me, can I help you?” the man said, seemingly annoyed by the intrusion.

He closed a laptop computer that was on the desk in front of him, but didn’t get up. I stepped two feet into the office. I saw no one else in the room.

“I’m looking for Sly Jr.,” I said. “Is that you?”

“I’m sorry but my practice is by appointment only. You’ll have to set up an appointment and come back.”

“There’s no receptionist.”

“My secretary is at lunch and I’m very busy at the—wait, you’re Haller, aren’t you?”

He pointed a finger at me and put his other hand on the arm of his chair like he was bracing himself in case he had to cut and run. I raised my hands to show I was unarmed.

“I come in peace.”

He looked like he was no more than twenty-five. He was struggling to produce a reasonable goatee and was wearing a Dodgers game jersey. It was obvious he didn’t have court today, or maybe any day.

“What do you want?” he asked.

I took a few more steps toward the desk. It was gigantic and way too big for the space—obviously a leftover from his father’s practice in a better, bigger office. I pulled back one of the chairs positioned in front of the desk and sat down.

“Don’t sit. You can’t—”

I was seated.

“All right, go ahead.”

I nodded my thanks and smiled. I pointed at the desk.

“Nice,” I said. “A hand-me-down from the old man?”

“Look, what do you want?”

“I told you. I come in peace. What are you so jumpy about?”

He blew out his breath in exasperation.

“I don’t like people barging in on me. This is a law office. You wouldn’t want people just—oh, that’s right, you don’t even have an office. I saw the movie.”

“I didn’t just barge in. There was no secretary. I called out and then tried the door.”

“I told you, she’s at lunch. It’s the lunch hour. Look, can we get this over with? What do you want? State your business and then leave.”

He dramatically chopped the air with his hand.

“Look,” I said, “I’m here because we got off on the wrong foot and I apologize. It was my fault. I was treating you—and your father—like we were foes on this case. But I don’t think it’s got to be that way. So I’m here to make peace and to see if we might be able to help each other out. You know, I show you mine if you show me yours.”

He shook his head.

“No, we’re not doing this. I have a case and you have whatever the fuck you have, but we’re not working together.”

I leaned forward and tried to hold eye contact but the kid was all over the place.

“We have similar causes of action, Sly. Your client Hector Moya and my client Andre La Cosse stand to benefit by our working together and sharing information.”

He shook his head dismissively.

“I don’t think so.”

I looked around the room and noticed his diplomas framed on the wall. The print was too small for me to read from a distance but I didn’t think I was dealing with an Ivy Leaguer here. I decided to put some of what I was thinking and had charted in the car out there to see how it went over.

“My client is charged with the murder of Gloria Dayton, who figures importantly in your habeas petition. The thing is, I don’t think he did it.”

“Well, good for you. It’s not our concern.”

I was beginning to suspect that his use of “our” did not refer to him and Hector Moya. It was a reference to Team Fulgoni—Mr. Inside and Mr. Outside. Only Mr. Outside didn’t know habeas corpus from corpus delicti and I was talking to the wrong man.

I decided to go ahead and hit him with the big question. The question that had emerged when I stepped back and looked at the big picture.

“Answer one question and I’ll go. Last year, did you try to subpoena Gloria Dayton before she was murdered?”

Fulgoni emphatically shook his head.

“I’m not talking to you about our case.”

“Did you have Valenzuela do it?”

“I told you, I’m not talk—”

“I don’t understand. We can help each other.”

“Then you talk to my father and try to convince him, because I’m not at liberty to discuss anything with you. You have to go now.”

I made no move to get up. I just stared at him. He made a gesture with his hands as if pushing me away.

“Please go.”

“Did somebody get to you, Sly?”

“Get to me? I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Why’d you dummy up the subpoena you had Valenzuela serve on Kendall Roberts?”