'What slimeball you gonna walk today, Atticus?'
That was before she started calling him 'the respondent.' When Sharon divorced him, her bill of particulars included his reputation for sleazy behavior.
'Respondent has engaged in a pattern of professional activity that is a source of embarrassment to Petitioner, a police officer.'
If he'd been different, Payne wondered, if he'd made more money and been more respectable, if he'd lunched at the California Club instead of Hooters, would Sharon still be his wife?
Nah, that wasn't the issue.
'You weren't here for me when I needed you, Jimmy.'
'Why do you lie so much?' Wrinkled Suit asked.
Payne shrugged. 'I'm a lawyer.'
'You rolled a baby split in the third frame. The three-ten. Very makeable. But you hit the 'Reset,' erased the score, and bowled again.'
'That a crime?'
'What kind of guy cheats when he's bowling alone?'
'Maybe a guy who wants a second chance.'
'To do what? Tell a client to flee the jurisdiction?'
'Who the hell are you?' The man reached into his jacket pocket and flipped open a vinyl wallet with an L.A.P.D. badge and photo I.D.
Payne read aloud. ' 'Detective Eugene Rigney. Public Integrity Unit.' Kinda wussy, isn't it? I mean, compared to Robbery Homi cide. Or SWAT.'
He turned toward the pins and took his four-step approach. A high back swing, a wrist-snapping release, a fluid follow-through. The ball skidded on the oil, dug in, and hooked hard left into the pocket. A big mix, the clatter of rolling logs. The skinny neck of the six-pin kissed the ten, pushing it over like a wobbly drunk.
Strike! Take that, Mr. Public Integrity.
Rigney didn't look impressed. 'You gotta do something for me, Payne.'
'What?'
'Bribe a judge.' The cop looked at his watch. 'And you've got one hour to do it.'
THREE
Payne plopped his Road Hawg into its zippered bag. 'I'm out of here, Rigney. Go bribe the judge yourself.'
'Do you have a client named Molly Kraft?' the cop asked.
Payne stopped in mid-zip.
Molly Kraft. Oh, shit.
'Child custody,' Payne said. 'Her husband molested their daughter.'
'You never proved it.'
'The husband's lawyer had a better shrink.'
'So you told Molly Kraft to take off with her daughter in violation of a court order.'
Rigney pulled a little cop notebook from his suit pocket. He read aloud in a monotone that could put a jury to sleep. It was all true. Payne had bought airline tickets for Molly Kraft and her daughter and sent them off to Puerto Vallarta to keep the girl away from her abusive father. Bored by endless sunshine and numbed by rivers of sangria, Molly sneaked back across the border four days ago, and got arrested in San Ysidro.
'She flipped on you, pal,' Rigney said.
Shit. Is it any wonder I hate my clients?
'Molly Kraft's gonna testify to the Grand Jury right after lunch. Once she does, I can't stop the indictment.'
'And now you can?'
Rigney didn't answer, letting Payne sweat. Smart.
Payne liked people who were good at their jobs. Perjurers. Pickpockets. Pain-in-the-ass cops.
Several seconds passed. There was only one other bowler in the place, way down at lane thirty-two, the falling pins echoing like distant thunder.
'Do you know Judge Walter Rollins?' Rigney said at last.
'Van Nuys Division. Didn't make partner at one of the downtown firms, so they bought him a seat on the bench.'
'That's it?'
'Rollins is condescending to lawyers, bullies his staff, and sucks up to the appellate court. He also doesn't like anyone smarter than him. Which means he has very few friends.'
Then there was the business with the car. Payne remembered a day when he was stopped at a traffic light on Lankershim near the In-N-Out Burger. He'd looked over-looked down, actually-from his perch in his Lexus SUV, and there was Judge Rollins, glaring up at him from his Mini Cooper. As if thinking:
'Payne, you asswipe. You don't deserve that fine machine with its G.P.S. whispering directions in your ear like a thousand-dollar hooker.'
Truth was, Payne leased the Lexus to impress his clients, especially car thieves.
'Rollins is dirty,' Rigney said, then told Payne about Operation Court Sweep. A sting operation. Joint task force of L.A.P.D. and the feds, which Payne figured would have cops shooting one another's dicks off.
'I don't have a case in front of Rollins,' Payne said, 'so if you're looking for someone to set him up-'
' We've got the case.'
'Forget it. I'm not a snitch.'
'Your choice, Payne. But know this: By tonight, either you or Walter Rollins will be behind bars.'
FOUR
Jimmy drove west on Ventura Boulevard, speaking to his ex-wife on the cell. 'Sharon, do you know a dickwad named Eugene Rigney?'
'Public Integrity,' she answered. 'Corruption cases.'
'That's him. Can I trust him?'
'Rigney's a hard-ass who lies under oath to get convictions. What are you up to?'
'A little this, a little that. Mostly bribery.'
'I'm serious, Atticus.'
'Me, too. How's Adam doing with his math?'
'Jimmy, don't do that! I asked you a question. How are you mixed up with Rigney?'
'Late for a hearing. Gotta go. I'll pick up Adam early for baseball Saturday.'
'Jimmy, dammit!'
He clicked off and slowed at the intersection of Beverly Glen. On the seat next to him was a cheap briefcase containing fifty thousand dollars in cash.
'Strike that, Madame Court Reporter. Forty-five thousand.'
At the traffic light at Coldwater Canyon, he'd grabbed one of the stacks of bills and slid it under the floor mat in the backseat. If Judge Rollins would roll over for fifty thousand, why not forty-five?
And don't I deserve something for bringing down a dirty judge?
The sting was a mousetrap intended to snap the necks of corrupt judges. Offer cash to reduce bail or dismiss the indictment or, slimiest of all, give up the name of an informant so the defendant can have him killed. So any guilt Payne felt at being a snitch was lessened by the knowledge that Judge Walter Rollins, if he fell for it, was willing to be an accessory to murder.
