The Lincoln Lawyer

“Where are you?”

“For Greedy Fucks.”

“What?”

“Four Green Fields. I’ve been here awhile.”

“Michael, what is -”

“Raul Levin is dead.”

“Oh my God, what -”

“Murdered. So this time can you drive me home? I’ve had too much.”

“Let me call Stacey and get her to stay late with Hayley, then I’ll be on my way. Do not try to leave there, okay? Just don’t leave.”

“Don’t worry, the bartender isn’t gonna let me.”

TWENTY-FIVE

After closing my phone I told the bartender I had changed my mind and I’d have one more pint while waiting for my ride. I took out my wallet and put a credit card on the bar. He ran my tab first, then got me the Guinness. He took so long filling the glass, spooning foam over the side to give me a full pour, that I had barely tasted it by the time Maggie got there.

“That was too quick,” I said. “You want a drink?”

“No, it’s too early. Let’s just get you home.”

“Okay.”

I got off the stool, remembered to collect my credit card and phone, and left the bar with my arm around her shoulders and feeling like I had poured more Guinness and vodka down the drain than my own throat.

“I’m right out front,” Maggie said. “Four Greedy Fucks, how did you come up with that? Do four people own this place?”

“No, for, as in for the people. As in Haller for the defense. Not the number four. Greedy fucks as in lawyers.”

“Thank you.”

“Not you. You’re not a lawyer. You’re a prosecutor.”

“How much did you drink, Haller?”

“Somewhere between too much and a lot.”

“Don’t puke in my car.”

“I promise.”

We got to the car, one of the cheap Jaguar models. It was the first car she had ever bought without me holding her hand and being involved in running down the choices. She’d gotten the Jag because it made her feel classy, but anybody who knew cars knew it was just a dressed-up Ford. I didn’t spoil it for her. Whatever made her happy made me happy-except the time she thought divorcing me would make her life happier. That didn’t do much for me.

She helped me in and then we were off.

“Don’t pass out, either,” she said as she pulled out of the parking lot. “I don’t know the way.”

“Just take Laurel Canyon over the hill. After that, it’s just a left turn at the bottom.”

Even though it was supposed to be a reverse commute, it took almost forty-five minutes in end-of-the-day traffic to get to Fareholm Drive. Along the way I told her about Raul Levin and what had happened. She didn’t react like Lorna had because she had never known Levin. Though I had known him and used him as an investigator for years, he didn’t become a friend until after we had divorced. In fact, it was Raul who had driven me home on more than one night from Four Green Fields as I was getting through the end of my marriage.

My garage opener was in the Lincoln back at the bar so I told her to just park in the opening in front of the garage. I also realized my front door key was on the ring that had the Lincoln ’s key and that had been confiscated by the bartender. We had to go down the side of the house to the back deck and get the spare key-the one Roulet had given me-from beneath an ashtray on the picnic table. We went in the back door, which led directly into my office. This was good because even in my inebriated state I was pleased that we avoided climbing the stairs to the front door. Not only would it have worn me out but she would have seen the view and been reminded of the inequities between life as a prosecutor and life as a greedy fuck.

“Ah, that’s nice,” she said. “Our little teacup.”

I followed her eyes and saw she was looking at the photo of our daughter I kept on the desk. I thrilled at the idea I had inadvertently scored a point of some kind with her.

“Yeah,” I said, fumbling any chance of capitalizing.

“Which way to the bedroom?” she asked.

“Well, aren’t you being forward. To the right.”

“Sorry, Haller, I’m not staying long. I only got a couple extra hours out of Stacey, and with that traffic, I’ve got to turn around and head back over the hill soon.”

She walked me into the bedroom and we sat down next to each other on the bed.

“Thank you for doing this,” I said.

“One good turn deserves another, I guess,” she said.

“I thought I got my good turn that night I took you home.”

She put her hand on my cheek and turned my face toward hers. She kissed me. I took this as confirmation that we actually had made love that night. I felt incredibly left out at not remembering.

“Guinness,” she said, tasting her lips as she pulled away.

“And some vodka.”

“Good combination. You’ll be hurting in the morning.”

“It’s so early I’ll be hurting tonight. Tell you what, why don’t we go get dinner at Dan Tana’s? Craig’s on the door now and -”

“No, Mick. I have to go home to Hayley and you have to go to sleep.”

I made a gesture of surrender.

“Okay, okay.”

“Call me in the morning. I want to talk to you when you’re sober.”

“Okay.”

“You want to get undressed and get under the covers?”

“No, I’m all right. I’ll just…”

I leaned back on the bed and kicked my shoes off. I then rolled over to the edge and opened a drawer in the night table. I took out a bottle of Tylenol and a CD that had been given to me by a client named Demetrius Folks. He was a banger from Norwalk known on the street as Lil’ Demon. He had told me once that he’d had a vision one night and that he knew he was destined to die young and violently. He gave me the CD and told me to play it when he was dead. And I did. Demetrius’s prophecy came true. He was killed in a drive-by shooting about six months after he had given me the disc. In Magic Marker he had written Wreckrium for Lil’ Demon on it. It was a collection of ballads he had burned off of Tupac CDs.

I loaded the CD into the Bose player on the night table and soon the rhythmic beat of “God Bless the Dead” started to play. The song was a salute to fallen comrades.

“You listen to this stuff?” Maggie asked, her eyes squinting at me in disbelief.

I shrugged as best I could while leaning on an elbow.

“Sometimes. It helps me understand a lot of my clients better.”

“These are the people who should be in jail.”

“Maybe some of them. But a lot of them have something to say. Some are true poets and this guy was the best of them.”