was not a fit season for man nor beast, so I spent a lot of time in my trailer, reading my buddy Plato and occasionally looking out at the wet basketball court. It looked sad, abandoned. And Sister Mary was in Louisville, doing Sister Hidlegarde’s peculiar penance.
A friendly detective named Fronterotta, out of the Devonshire Division, was looking into the cyberstalking e-mail to Sister Mary. Which meant, if the tone of his voice was any indication, we had a better chance winning the lottery than finding the guy.
I continued to dispense legal advice in the corner of the Ultimate Sip. I advised several people to start small-claims actions. I argued one woman out of filing suit against the government for invasion of her brain and got her to a hospital instead.
I had one guy come in and describe himself as an “exotic talent coordinator.” A little delving and I found out he just didn’t like the word “pimp.” He thought that was beneath him. I told him the law didn’t care what he called himself, he still couldn’t peddle flesh.
He wondered if he was protected by the Equal Protection Clause of the United States Constitution.
Um, no.
Then a stripper came to see me. She was upset about her working conditions. I told her she could call herself a “disrobing technician” and quit.
Only, the toking ex-employee, came back to see me. Said he got a new job that never required him to pee in a cup. I asked him what the job was. A psychic hotline, he said. He had come to thank me. And offered me a blunt. I told him no, I don’t take medicine away from the sick.
“It’s a gift, man!” he said.
“The greatest gift,” I said, “would be knowing that you’re back in full, vigorous bloom.”
He looked at me and frowned. Then said if I ever needed some help with an investigation, to give him a call. He might be able to predict what moves I should make. Or, if he couldn’t do it, he could ask some of his psychic friends.
I told him to get off the Jane and try fresh juices.
He said, “Something’s going to happen to you, I have a real feeling about that.”
“You’ll go far, my friend,” I said.
13
THE RAINS LET up toward the end of the month. And on a sunny Tuesday in January, I had an actual court appearance. Nothing like going to court to clear out the existential toxins. You could concentrate on the venom of the justice system for a while.
Even with a client like Carl “Santa Claus” Richess. Not exactly a name to inspire fear, like Sammy “the Bull” Gravano.
But it was all I had, and I was glad. I needed to get back in the game.
The Hollywood branch of the Los Angeles Superior Court sits in a sand-colored building on Hollywood Boulevard, east of Gower, bracketed by a tattoo parlor on one side and a meeting hall of the Salvation Army on the other.
What a town this is. You can get tagged, convicted, and saved, all in the same day, without walking more than a block.
I parked in the front lot and went through security and into Department 77, the only courtroom on the first floor. It was half filled with people waiting to be arraigned, or waiting with family members waiting to be arraigned, or people who, in the future, would no doubt be arraigned.
And some lawyers.
Carl Richess was waiting for me inside. He stood up, filling about half the courtroom. The other half was filled up with two more of the Richess family—Kate and a guy almost as big as Carl. Carl introduced him as his brother, Eric.
“Moral support,” Eric said. He was dressed in blue jeans and a denim shirt with the sleeves rolled up. I could see the family resemblance, though Carl looked a bit more like his mother. Still, I couldn’t help thinking of Tweedledum and Tweedledee. Put the brothers in striped shirts and beanie hats, and you’d think you were at Disneyland.
Carl wore a brown sport coat over black slacks, and a red-and-greenstriped tie. It was funny and pitiful at the same time. He was trying to look respectful, and no doubt this was the best he had in his closet. Probably something off the Big and Tall rack at Sears.
I respected his effort. He looked like he needed effort on his behalf, too. Like Kate had said. He was holding a Dodgers baseball cap in his hands. “My lucky hat,” he