Free The Lincoln Lawyer: A Novel by Michael Connelly Page B

Building I called Raul Levin. He was back at his home office in Glendale, looking
     through the police reports on the Roulet investigation and arrest. I asked him to put it aside to make some calls. I wantedto see what he could find out about the man in room 333 at the Travelodge on Santa Monica. I told him I needed the information
     yesterday. I knew he had sources and ways of running the name Hector Moya. I just didn’t want to know who or what they were.
     I was only interested in what he got.
    As Earl pulled to a stop in front of the CCB, I told him that while I was inside he should take a run over to Philippe’s to
     get us roast beef sandwiches. I’d eat mine on my way out to Century City. I passed a twenty-dollar bill over the seat to him
     and got out.
    While waiting for an elevator in the always crowded lobby of the CCB, I popped a Tylenol from my briefcase and hoped it would
     head off the migraine I felt coming on from lack of food. It took me ten minutes to get to the ninth floor and another fifteen
     waiting for Leslie Faire to grant me an audience. I didn’t mind the wait, though, because Raul Levin called back just before
     I was allowed entrance. If Faire had seen me right away, I wouldn’t have gone in with the added ammunition.
    Levin had told me that the man in room 333 at the Travelodge had checked in under the name Gilberto Garcia. The motel did
     not require identification, since he paid cash in advance for a week and put a fifty-dollar deposit on phone charges. Levin
     had also run a trace on the name I had given him and came up with Hector Arrande Moya, a Colombian wanted on a fugitive warrant
     issued after he fled San Diego when a federal grand jury handed down an indictment for drug trafficking. It added up to real
     good stuff and I planned to put it to use with the prosecutor.
    Faire was in an office shared with three other prosecutors. Each had a desk in a corner. Two were gone, probably in court,
     but a man I didn’t know sat at the desk in the corner opposite Faire. I had to speak to her with him in earshot. I hated doing
     this because I found that the prosecutor I was dealing with in these situations would often play to the others in the room,
     trying to sound tough and shrewd, sometimes at the expense of my client.
    I pulled a chair away from one of the empty desks and brought it over to sit down. I skipped the pleasantries because there
     weren’tany and got right to the point because I was hungry and didn’t have a lot of time.
    “You filed on Gloria Dayton this morning,” I said. “She’s mine. I want to see what we can do about it.”
    “Well, we can plead her guilty and she can do one to three years at Frontera.”
    She said it matter-of-factly with a smile that was more of a smirk.
    “I was thinking of PTI.”
    “I was thinking she already got a bite out of that apple and she spit it out. No way.”
    “Look, how much coke did she have on her, a couple grams?”
    “It’s still illegal, no matter how much she had. Gloria Dayton has had numerous opportunities to rehabilitate herself and
     avoid prison. But she’s run out of chances.”
    She turned to her desk, opened a file and glanced at the top sheet.
    “Nine arrests in just the last five years,” she said. “This is her third drug charge and she’s never spent more than three
     days in jail. Forget PTI. She’s got to learn sometime and this is that time. I’m not open to discussion on this. If she pleads,
     I’ll give her one to three. If she doesn’t, I’ll go get a verdict and she takes her chances with the judge at sentencing.
     I will ask for the max on it.”
    I nodded. It was going about the way I thought it would with Faire. A one-to-three-year sentence would likely result in a
     nine-month stay in the slam. I knew Gloria Dayton could do it and maybe should do it. But I still had a card to play.
    “What if she had something to trade?”
    Faire snorted like it was a joke.
    “Like what?”
    “A