The Lincoln Lawyer

the back. It was full of six women, all prosecutors or secretaries from the Van Nuys office. Most I knew at least in passing but the scene was awkward because I had to stand and yell over the music and the crowd. Plus the fact that they were prosecutors and viewed me as being in league with the devil. They had two pitchers of Guinness on the table and one was full. But my chances of getting through the crowd to the bar to get a glass were negligible. Maggie noticed my plight and offered to share her glass with me.

“It’s all right,” she yelled. “We’ve swapped spit before.”

I smiled and knew the two pitchers on the table had not been the first two. I took a long drink and it tasted good. Guinness always gave me a solid center.

Maggie was in the middle on the left side of the booth and between two young prosecutors whom I knew she had taken under her wing. In the Van Nuys office, many of the younger females gravitated toward my ex-wife because the man in charge, Smithson, surrounded himself with attorneys like Minton.

Still standing at the side of the booth, I raised the glass in toast to her but she couldn’t respond because I had her glass. She reached over and raised the pitcher.

“Cheers!”

She didn’t go so far as to drink from the pitcher. She put it down and whispered to the woman on the outside of the booth. She got up to let Maggie out. My ex-wife stood up and kissed me on the cheek and said, “It’s always easier for a lady to get a glass in these sorts of situations.”

“Especially beautiful ladies,” I said.

She gave me one of her looks and turned toward the crowd that was five deep between us and the bar. She whistled shrilly and it caught the attention of one of the pure-bred Irish guys who worked the tap handles and could etch a harp or an angel or a naked lady in the foam at the top of the glass.

“I need a pint glass,” she yelled.

The bartender had to read her lips. And like a teenager being passed over the heads of the crowd at a Pearl Jam concert, a clean glass made its way back to us hand to hand. She filled it from the freshest pitcher on the booth’s table and then we clicked glasses.

“So,” she said. “Are you feeling a little better than when I saw you today?”

I nodded.

“A little.”

“Did Minton sandbag you?”

I nodded again.

“Him and the cops did, yeah.”

“With that guy Corliss? I told them he was full of shit. They all are.”

I didn’t respond and tried to act like what she had just said was not news to me and that Corliss was a name I already knew. I took a long and slow drink from my glass.

“I guess I shouldn’t have said that,” she said. “But my opinion doesn’t matter. If Minton is dumb enough to use him, then you’ll take the guy’s head off, I’m sure.”

I guessed that she was talking about a witness. But I had seen nothing in my review of the discovery file that mentioned a witness named Corliss. The fact that it was a witness she didn’t trust led me further to believe that Corliss was a snitch. Most likely a jailhouse snitch.

“How come you know about him?” I finally asked. “Minton talked to you about him?”

“No, I’m the one who sent him to Minton. Doesn’t matter what I think of what he said, it was my duty to send him to the right prosecutor and it was up to Minton to evaluate him.”

“I mean, why did he come to you?”

She frowned at me because the answer was so obvious.

“Because I handled the first appearance. He was there in the pen. He thought the case was still mine.”

Now I understood. Corliss was a C. Roulet was taken out of alphabetical order and called first. Corliss must have been in the group of inmates taken into the courtroom with him. He had seen Maggie and me argue over Roulet’s bail. He therefore thought Maggie still had the case. He must have made a snitch call to her.

“When did he call you?” I asked.

“I am telling you too much, Haller. I’m not -”

“Just tell me when he called you. That hearing was on a Monday, so was it later that day?”

The case did not make any notice in the newspapers or on TV. So I was curious as to where Corliss would have gotten the information he was trying to trade to prosecutors. I had to assume it didn’t come from Roulet. I was pretty sure I had scared him silent. Without a media information point, Corliss would have been left with the information gleaned in court when the charges were read and Maggie and I argued bail.

It was enough, I realized. Maggie had been specific in detailing Regina Campo’s injuries as she was trying to impress the judge to hold Roulet without bail. If Corliss had been in court, he’d have been privy to all the details he would need to make up a jailhouse confession from my client. Add that to his proximity to Roulet and a jailhouse snitch is born.

“Yes, he called me late Monday,” Maggie finally answered.

“So why did you think he was full of shit? He’s done it before, hasn’t he? The guy’s a professional snitch, right?”

I was fishing and she knew it. She shook her head.

“I am sure you will find out all you need to know during discovery. Can we just have a friendly pint of Guinness here? I have to leave in about an hour.”

I nodded but wanted to know more.

“Tell you what,” I said. “You’ve probably had enough Guinness for one St. Patrick’s Day. How about we get out of here and get something to eat?”

“Why, so you can keep asking me about your case?”

“No, so we can talk about our daughter.”

Her eyes narrowed.

“Is something wrong?” she asked.

“Not that I know of. But I want to talk to you about her.”

“Where are you taking me to dinner?”

I mentioned an expensive Italian restaurant on Ventura in Sherman Oaks and her eyes got warm. It had been a place we had gone to celebrate anniversaries and getting pregnant. Our apartment, which she still had, was a few blocks away on Dickens.

“Think we can eat there in an hour?” she asked.

“If we leave right now and order without looking.”

“You’re on. Let me just say some quick good-byes.”

“I’ll drive.”

And it was a good thing I drove because she was unsteady on her feet. We had to walk hip to hip to the Lincoln and then I helped her get in.

I took Van Nuys south to Ventura. After a few moments Maggie reached beneath her legs and pulled out a CD case she had been uncomfortably sitting on. It was Earl’s. One of the CDs he listened to on the car stereo when I was in court. It saved juice on his iPod. The CD was by a dirty south performer named Ludacris.

“No wonder I was so uncomfortable,” she said. “Is this what you’re listening to while driving between courthouses?”

“Actually, no. That’s Earl’s. He’s been doing the driving lately. Ludacris isn’t really to my liking. I’m more of an old school guy. Tupac and Dre and people like that.”

She laughed because she thought I was kidding. A few minutes later we drove down the narrow alley that led to the door of the restaurant. A valet took the car and we went in. The hostess recognized us and acted like it had only been a couple weeks since the last time we had been in. The truth was, we had probably both been in there recently, but each with other partners.

I asked for a bottle of Singe Shiraz and we ordered pasta dishes without looking at a menu. We skipped salads and appetizers and told the waiter not to delay bringing the food out. After he left I checked my watch and saw we still had forty-five minutes. Plenty of time.

The Guinness was catching up with Maggie. She smiled in a fractured sort of way that told me she was drunk.