The Lincoln lawyer - By Michael Connelly Page 0,20

a slam dunk.”

I imagined her sitting in her cubicle, probably not far from where my new opponent was sitting in his.

“I don’t get it, Mags. If this guy’s green, why wasn’t I lucky?”

“Because these guys Smithson picks are all cracked out of the same mold. They’re arrogant assholes. They think they can do no wrong and what’s more . . .”

She lowered her voice even more.

“They don’t play fair. And the word on Minton is that he’s a cheater. Watch yourself, Haller. Better yet, watch him.”

“Well, thanks for the heads-up.”

But she wasn’t finished.

“A lot of these new people just don’t get it. They don’t see it as a calling. To them it’s not about justice. It’s just a game—a batting average. They like to keep score and to see how far it will get them in the office. In fact, they’re all just like junior Smithsons.”

A calling. It was her sense of calling that ultimately cost us our marriage. On an intellectual level she could deal with being married to a man who worked the other side of the aisle. But when it came down to the reality of what we did, we were lucky to have lasted the eight years we had managed. Honey, how was your day? Oh, I got a guy who murdered his roommate with an ice pick a seven-year deal. And you? Oh, I put a guy away for five years because he stole a car stereo to feed his habit . . . It just didn’t work. Four years in, a daughter arrived, but through no fault of her own, she only kept us going another four years.

Still, I didn’t regret a thing about it. I cherished my daughter. She was the only thing that was really good about my life, that I could be proud of. I think deep down, the reason I didn’t see her enough—that I was chasing cases instead of her—was because I felt unworthy of her. Her mother was a hero. She put bad people in jail. What could I tell her was good and holy about what I did, when I had long ago lost the thread of it myself?

“Hey, Haller, are you there?”

“Yeah, Mags, I’m here. What are you eating today?”

“Just the oriental salad from downstairs. Nothing special. Where are you?”

“Heading downtown. Listen, tell Hayley I’ll see her this Saturday. I’ll make a plan. We’ll do something special.”

“You really mean that? I don’t want to get her hopes up.”

I felt something lift inside me, the idea that my daughter would get her hopes up about seeing me. The one thing Maggie never did was run me down with Hayley. She wasn’t the kind that would do that. I always admired that.

“Yes, I’m sure,” I said.

“Great, I’ll tell her. Let me know when you’re coming or if I can drop her off.”

“Okay.”

I hesitated. I wanted to talk to her longer but there was nothing else to say. I finally said good-bye and closed the phone. In a few minutes we broke free of the bottleneck. I looked out the window and saw no accident. I saw nobody with a flat tire and no highway patrol cruiser parked on the shoulder. I saw nothing that explained what had caused the traffic tie-up. It was often like that. Freeway traffic in Los Angeles was as mysterious as marriage. It moved and flowed, then stalled and stopped for no easily explainable reason.

I am from a family of attorneys. My father, my half brother, a niece and a nephew. My father was a famous lawyer in a time when there was no cable television and no Court TV. He was the dean of criminal law in L.A. for almost three decades. From Mickey Cohen to the Manson girls, his clients always made the headlines. I was just an afterthought in his life, a surprise visitor to his second marriage to a B-level movie actress known for her exotic Latin looks but not her acting skills. The mix gave me my black Irish looks. My father was old when I came, so he was gone before I was old enough to really know him or talk to him about the calling of the law. He only left me his name. Mickey Haller, the legal legend. It still opened doors.

But my older brother—the half brother from the first marriage—told me that my father used to talk to him about the practice of law and criminal defense. He used to say he would defend the