The Lincoln lawyer - By Michael Connelly Page 0,13
the community did last night. So I don’t really care what he did before. I’m just going to make sure he doesn’t get out to do this again.”
The photo was an 8 X 10 close-up of a woman’s face. The swelling around the right eye was so extensive that the eye was completely and tightly closed. The nose was broken and pushed off center. Blood-soaked gauze protruded from each nostril. There was a deep gash over the right eyebrow that had been closed with nine butterfly stitches. The lower lip was cut and had a marble-size swelling as well. The worst thing about the photo was the eye that was undamaged. The woman looked at the camera with fear, pain and humiliation undeniably expressed in that one tearful eye.
“If he did it,” I said, because that is what I would be expected to say.
“Right,” Maggie said. “Sure, if he did it. He was only arrested in her home with her blood on him, but you’re right, that’s a valid question.”
“I like it when you’re sarcastic. Do you have the arrest report there? I’d like to get a copy of it.”
“You can get it from whoever takes the case over from me. No favors, Haller. Not this time.”
I waited, expecting more banter, more indignation, maybe another shot across the bow, but that was all she said. I decided that getting more out of her on the case was a lost cause. I changed the subject.
“So,” I said. “How is she?”
“She’s scared shitless and hurting like hell. How else would she be?”
She looked up at me and I saw the immediate recognition and then judgment in her eyes.
“You weren’t even asking about the victim, were you?”
I didn’t answer. I didn’t want to lie to her.
“Your daughter is doing fine,” she said perfunctorily. “She likes the things you send her but she would rather you show up a little more often.”
That wasn’t a shot across the bow. That was a direct hit and it was deserved. It seemed as though I was always chasing cases, even on weekends. Deep down inside I knew I needed to start chasing my daughter around the backyard more often. The time to do it was going by.
“I will,” I said. “Starting right now. What about this weekend?”
“Fine. You want me to tell her tonight?”
“Uh, maybe wait until tomorrow so I know for sure.”
She gave me one of those knowing nods. We had been through this before.
“Great. Let me know tomorrow.”
This time I didn’t enjoy the sarcasm.
“What does she need?” I asked, trying to stumble back to just being even.
“I just told you what she needs. More of you in her life.”
“Okay, I promise. I will do that.”
She didn’t respond.
“I really mean that, Maggie. I’ll call you tomorrow.”
She looked up at me and was ready to hit me with both barrels. She had done it before, saying I was all talk and no action when it came to fatherhood. But I was saved by the start of the court session. The judge came out of chambers and bounded up the steps to the bench. The bailiff called the courtroom to order. Without another word to Maggie I left the prosecution table and went back to one of the seats along the bar.
The judge asked his clerk if there was any business to be discussed before the custodies were brought out. There was none, so the judge ordered the first group out. As with the courtroom in Lancaster, there was a large holding area for in-custody defendants. I got up and moved to the opening in the glass. When I saw Roulet come through the door I signaled him over.
“You’re going first,” I told him. “I asked the judge to take you out of order as a favor. I want to try to get you out of here.”
This was not the truth. I hadn’t asked the judge anything, and even if I had, the judge would do no such thing for me as a favor. Roulet was going first because of the media presence in the courtroom. It was a general practice to deal with the media cases first. This was a courtesy to the cameramen who supposedly had other assignments to get to. But it also made for less tension in the courtroom when lawyers, defendants and even the judge could operate without a television camera on them.
“Why’s that camera here?” Roulet asked in a panicked whisper. “Is that for me?”