Free The Brass Verdict by Michael Connelly

Santa Monica. He was barely making enough to live on, let alone pay $1,000 a month to Vincent. His mother, meanwhile, had been tapped out by his bail and the cost of his stay in rehab.
    The file was replete with motions to continue and other filings as delay tactics undertaken by Vincent while he waited for Henson to come across with more cash. This was standard practice. Get your money up front, especially when the case is probably a dog. The prosecutor had Henson on tape selling the stolen merchandise. It meant the case was worse than a dog. It was roadkill.
    There was a phone number in the file for Henson. One thing every lawyer drilled into nonincarcerated clients was the need to maintain a method of contact. Those facing criminal charges and the likelihood of prison often had unstable home lives. They moved around, sometimes were completely homeless. But a lawyer had to be able to reach them at a moment’s notice. The number was listed in the file as Henson’s cell, and if it was still good, I could call him right now. The question was, did I want to?
    I looked up at the bench. The judge was still in the middle of oral arguments on a bail motion. There were still three other lawyers waiting their turn at other motions and no sign of the prosecutor who was assigned to the Edgar Reese case. I got up and whispered to the deputy again.
    “I’m going out into the hallway to make a call. I’ll be close.”
    He nodded.
    “If you’re not back when it’s time, I’ll come grab you,” he said. “Just make sure you turn that phone off before coming back in. The judge doesn’t like cell phones.”
    He didn’t have to tell me that. I already knew firsthand that the judge didn’t like cell phones in her court. My lesson was learned when I was making an appearance before her and my phone started playing the William Tell Overture — my daughter’s ringtone choice, not mine. The judge slapped me with a $100-dollar fine and had taken to referring to me ever since as the Lone Ranger. That last part I didn’t mind so much. I sometimes felt like I was the Lone Ranger. I just rode in a black Lincoln Town Car instead of on a white horse.
    I left my case and the other files on the bench in the gallery and walked out into the hallway with only the Henson file. I found a reasonably quiet spot in the crowded hallway and called the number. It was answered after two rings.
    “This is Trick.”
    “Patrick Henson?”
    “Yeah, who’s this?”
    “I’m your new lawyer. My name is Mi— ”
    “Whoa, wait a minute. What happened to my old lawyer? I gave that guy Vincent—”
    “He’s dead, Patrick. He passed away last night.”
    “Nooooo.”
    “Yes, Patrick. I’m sorry about that.”
    I waited a moment to see if he had anything else to say about it, then started in as perfunctorily as a bureaucrat.
    “My name is Michael Haller and I’m taking over Jerry Vincent’s cases. I’ve been reviewing your file here and I see you haven’t made a single payment on the schedule Mr. Vincent put you on.”
    “Ah, man, this is the deal. I’ve been concentrating on getting right and staying right and I’ve got no fucking money. Okay? I already gave that guy Vincent all my boards. He counted it as five grand but I know he got more. A couple of those long boards were worth at least a grand apiece. He told me that he got enough to get started but all he’s been doing is delaying things. I can’t get back to shit until this thing is all over.”
    “Are you staying right, Patrick? Are you clean?”
    “As a fucking whistle, man. Vincent told me it was the only way I’d have a shot at staying out of jail.”
    I looked up and down the hallway. It was crowded with lawyers and defendants and witnesses and the families of those victimized or accused. It was a football field long and everybody in it was hoping for one thing. A break. For the clouds to open and something to go their way just this one time.
    “Jerry was right, Patrick. You have