Will tries not to look startled. “From Mrs. Rivera Hollis? We—I—didn’t think we had to.” In fact, it had never occurred to him. Yet another foundering assumption. Will imagines how pissed off Abby will be when he comes back empty-handed on this technical foul and slips on his easy, open-faced grin. “Maybe there’s been some kind of misunderstanding. I’m her defense attorney. We’re all on the same team here.”
Estrada nods. “We’re all on the same team, no doubt about that.”
“So then—” Will wants to say, what’s the friggin’ problem, man? Instead he tries “—maybe I can shoot you the consent by fax as soon as I get back to the office.”
Estrada leans forward, plucks a paper clip from a tray on his desk and taps it against his teeth. “Will, can I ask you something?”
Will leans back, spreads his hands. “Sure, anything.”
“Does Luz know you’re here?”
“That I’m here right now?” Will is stalling for time, trying to figure out how his play has gone so far south. He can hear the air conditioner, practically feel it turning his sweat to ice.
Estrada watches him, waiting.
“Not—not specifically, no.”
“Does she know that you’ve contacted me? Did you tell her you were coming to get her file?”
In fact, no. “Look, Mrs. Rivera Hollis has the documents the government turned over after they searched the house, including your invoice. It’s not exactly a—a state secret.” Irritation is giving way to confusion. What the hell is going on?
Estrada nods, as if expecting this answer. “But what Luz called me about and what she told me, those matters are a state secret.”
Clever. Will tries out his grin again. “Yes, exactly, the attorney-client privilege, work product, of course.”
“Privileges and protections which she would have to waive in writing even for you.” Estrada pulls the inside of the paper clip out in the opposite direction, so that it’s twice as long now, laid flat.
“She doesn’t need to be protected from me.” No way this guy’s law school was accredited. He’d bet $100 on it. “Like I said, I’m her lawyer.”
Estrada returns the inside of the paper clip to its old position, but it looks misshapen now, bumpy. “A little bit of knowledge can be a dangerous thing, son.”
Will blinks. “Sir?”
Estrada balances the reconstructed paper clip between his two index fingers. “Sometimes, a little knowledge can affect the way you see things. Sometimes, in my experience, it’s better not to know. Can throw you off your game.”
“I’m pretty tough, sir. Hard to throw.”
Estrada doesn’t look up from his paper clip. “You might want to ask yourself whether you need to see that file, son. And ask your client if she wants you to.”
Will stands, straightening his jacket as best he can in an attempt to retain some sense of dignity. “I can be back tomorrow with a signed consent form if that’s what you’re insisting on.”
Estrada looks up then, gives a slight nod. “You could,” he says, “but you won’t.”
Monday, January 8, 2007
9:15 a.m.
United States District Court
Los Angeles
“The judge denied the motion to recuse. Ruled right from the bench.”
Abby stares out her office window, then back at the speakerphone, impatiently waiting, but now Will is talking to Paul. She hears, “Yes, sir,” and, “See you tomorrow,” and something muffled from Paul before Will is back on the line.
“Sorry about that.”
“What did he say, exactly?” Abby makes a hurry-up gesture toward the phone, as if that would help.
“Paul?”
“No. Dars. The judge, Will.”
“Right. I should be back in the office in about five minutes. I’ll come up to your office.”
Abby adjusts the cone-shaped cups built into the elastic band around her middle to make sure they are firmly suctioned to her breasts. She turns the dial on the machine. Immediately, the whirring starts and with it, dots of milk appear, gathering, then sliding down the clear plastic tubes that connect the cone-cups to the waiting bottles on her desk.
“What’s that sound?”
“Nothing. Just stop somewhere quiet and read me your notes.”
“Why? I said—”
“Because I’m topless with plastic cones suctioned to my nipples, okay?”
“I—Okay, I didn’t know that.”
Abby allows herself a small smile as she watches the milk collecting in the bottles. She is a champion pumper, but to keep up with Cal’s insatiable appetite and avoid the embarrassment of leaking through the front of her blouse, she has to do it every three hours—four if she’s lucky.
Over the speakerphone she hears a door open, the swell of voices, and then another door opening and shutting. Silence.
“Where are you?” she asks.
“In the Starbucks bathroom. Too loud out there. Good lord, it smells.” She hears the crinkle of unfolding paper, then Will’s voice, reading aloud.
“Judge Ducey thanked both sides for their excellent briefing. Reminded us of the legal standard. The issue isn’t whether he would be unfair but only whether a reasonable person looking at the situation from the outside would think that he might be.”
Abby stares at the phone, mouths blah blah blah. The standard sounds good in theory, but is meaningless in reality. It gives Dars a fig leaf, but it’s a skimpy one. To recuse himself, he would have to admit the reality of how he is perceived by others, which, in a way, is even worse than privately acknowledging his own bias. And the bigger problem, as she had known all along, is that Dars would not be able to pass up the chance to dig into her.
“He said the recusal motion had given him occasion to revisit the past and think carefully about Rayshon Marbury’s case. Said that, yes, he had used harsh words about you—Ms. Rosenberg—but that it was in the heat of the moment. Says you handed him his hat, outlawyered him. It was a hard loss to accept, particularly since he wasn’t used to losing. But the facts were the facts. In the case of Rayshon Marcus Marbury, misconduct by one rogue police officer who tampered with evidence meant that Judge Alvarez—now his esteemed colleague—had to dismiss the charges. Says he believes
