The Lincoln Lawyer

“So, was your partner right about it being a twenty-two?”

She paused before answering, deciding whether to cross some threshold of revealing case information to me, an involved party in the case but the enemy-a defense lawyer-nonetheless.

“He was right. And thanks to the markings on the cartridge, we even know the exact gun we are looking for.”

I knew from questioning ballistics experts and firearms examiners in trials over the years that marks left on bullet casings during the firing process could identify the weapon even without the weapon in hand. With an automatic, the firing pin, breech block, ejector and extractor all leave signature marks on the bullet casing in the split second the weapon is fired. Analyzing the four markings in unison can lead to a specific make and model of the weapon being identified.

“It turns out that Mr. Levin owned a twenty-two himself,” Sobel said. “But we found it in a closet safe in the house and it’s not a Woodsman. The one thing we have not found is his cell phone. We know he had one but we -”

“He was talking to me on it right before he was killed.”

There was a moment of silence.

“You told us yesterday that the last time you spoke to him was Friday night.”

“That’s right. But that’s why I am calling. Raul called me yesterday morning at eleven-oh-seven and left me a message. I didn’t get it until today because after I left you people yesterday I just went out and got drunk. Then I went to sleep and didn’t realize I had a message from him till right now. He called about one of the cases he was working on for me sort of on the side. It’s an appellate thing and the client’s in prison. A no-rush thing. Anyway, the content of the message isn’t important but the call helps with the timing. And get this, while he’s leaving the message, you hear the dog start to bark. It did that whenever somebody came to the door. I know because I’d been there before and the dog always barked.”

Again she hit me with some silence before responding.

“I don’t understand something, Mr. Haller.”

“What’s that?”

“You told us yesterday you were at home until around noon before you left for the game. And now you say that Mr. Levin left a message for you at eleven-oh-seven. Why didn’t you answer the phone?”

“Because I was on it and I don’t have call waiting. You can check my records, you’ll see I got a call from my office manager, Lorna Taylor. I was talking to her when Raul called. Without call waiting I didn’t know. And of course he thought I had already left for the game so he just left a message.”

“Okay, I understand. We’ll probably want your permission in writing to look at those records.”

“No problem.”

“Where are you now?”

“I’m at home.”

I gave her the address and she said that she and her partner were coming.

“Make it soon. I have to leave for court in about an hour.”

“We’re coming right now.”

I closed the phone feeling uneasy. I had defended a dozen murderers over the years and that had brought me into contact with a number of homicide investigators. But I had never been questioned myself about a murder before. Lankford and now Sobel seemed to be suspicious of every answer I could give. It made me wonder what they knew that I didn’t.

I straightened up things on the desk and closed my briefcase. I didn’t want them seeing anything I didn’t want them to see. I then walked through my house and checked every room. My last stop was the bedroom. I made the bed and put the CD case for Wreckrium for Lil’ Demon back in the night table drawer. And then it hit me. I sat on the bed as I remembered something Sobel had said. She had made a slip and at first it had gone right by me. She had said that they had found Raul Levin’s.22 caliber gun but it was not the murder weapon. She said it was not a Woodsman.

She had inadvertently revealed to me the make and model of the murder weapon. I knew the Woodsman was an automatic pistol manufactured by Colt. I knew this because I owned a Colt Woodsman Sport Model. It had been bequeathed to me many years ago by my father. Upon his death. Once old enough to handle it, I had never even taken it out of its wooden box.

I got up from the bed and went to the walk-in closet. I moved as if in a heavy fog. My steps were tentative and I put my hand out to the wall and then the door casement as if needing my bearings. The polished wooden box was on the shelf where it was supposed to be. I reached up with both hands to bring it down and then walked it out to the bedroom.

I put the box down on the bed and flipped open the brass latch. I raised the lid and pulled away the oilcloth covering.

The gun was gone.

PART TWO. A World Without Truth

Monday, May 23

TWENTY-SEVEN

The check from Roulet cleared. On the first day of trial I had more money in my bank account than I’d ever had in my life. If I wanted, I could drop the bus benches and go with billboards. I could also take the back cover of the yellow pages instead of the half page I had inside. I could afford it. I finally had a franchise case and it had paid off. In terms of money, that is. The loss of Raul Levin would forever make this franchise a losing proposition.

We had been through three days of jury selection and were now ready to put on the show. The trial was scheduled for another three days at the most-two for the prosecution and one for the defense. I had told the judge that I would need a day to put my case before the jury, but the truth was, most of my work would be done during the prosecution’s presentation.

There’s always an electric feel to the start of a trial. A nervousness that attacks deep in the gut. So much is on the line. Reputation, personal freedom, the integrity of the system itself. Something about having those twelve strangers sit in judgment of your life and work always jumps things up inside. And I am referring to me, the defense attorney-the judgment of the defendant is a whole other thing. I’ve never gotten used to it, and the truth is, I never want to. I can only liken it to the anxiety and tension of standing at the front of a church on your wedding day. I’d had that experience twice and I was reminded of it every time a judge called a trial to order.

Though my experience in trial work severely outweighed my opponent’s, there was no mistake about where I stood. I was one man standing before the giant maw of the system. Without a doubt I was the underdog. Yes, it was true that I faced a prosecutor in his first major felony trial. But that advantage was evened and then some by the power and might of the state. At the prosecutor’s command were the forces of the entire justice system. And against this all I had was myself. And a guilty client.

I sat next to Louis Roulet at the defense table. We were alone. I had no second and no investigator behind me-out of some strange loyalty to Raul Levin I had not hired a replacement. I didn’t really need one, either. Levin had given me everything I needed. The trial and how it played out would serve as a last testament to his skills as an investigator.

In the first row of the gallery sat C. C. Dobbs and Mary Alice Windsor. In accordance with a pretrial ruling, the