My phone buzzed and I pulled it out of my pocket. It was my case manager, Lorna Taylor, calling but I decided to let it go to message. I’d call her back after my visit with Legal.
“What else you got going now?” Legal asked.
I spread my hands.
“Well, no trial now, so I guess I have the rest of the week off. I may go down to arraignment court tomorrow and see if I can pick up a client or two. I could use the work.”
Not only could I use the income but the work would keep me busy and not thinking about the things in my life that were wrong. In that sense the law had become more than a craft and a calling. It kept me sane.
By checking in at Department 130, the arraignment court in the downtown Criminal Courts Building, I had a shot at picking up clients the public defender was dropping because of conflict of interest. Every time the DA filed a multi-defendant case, the PD could take on only one defendant, putting all others in conflict. If those other defendants did not have private counsel, the judge would appoint counsel to them. If I happened to be there twiddling my thumbs, more often than not I’d pick up a case. It paid government scale but it was better than no work and no pay.
“And to think,” Legal said, “at one point last fall you were running five points up in the polls. And now here you are, scrounging around first-appearance court looking for handouts.”
As he had aged, Legal had lost most of the social filters normally employed in polite company.
“Thanks, Legal,” I said. “I can always count on you for a fair and accurate take on my lot in life. It’s refreshing.”
Legal Siegel raised his bony hands in what I guessed was an apologetic gesture.
“I’m just saying.”
“Sure.”
“So what about your daughter, then?”
This was how Legal’s mind worked. Sometimes he couldn’t remember what he’d had for breakfast, but he seemed to always remember that I had lost more than the election the year before. The scandal had cost me the love and companionship of my daughter and any shot I’d had at putting my broken family back together.
“Things are still the same there, but let’s not go down that road today,” I said.
I checked my phone again after feeling the vibration signaling I had received a text. It was from Lorna. She had surmised that I wasn’t taking calls or listening to voice-mail. A text was different.
Call me ASAP–187
Her mention of the California penal code number for murder got my attention. It was time to go.
“You know, Mickey, I only bring her up because you don’t.”
“I don’t want to bring her up. It’s too painful, Legal. I get drunk every Friday night so I can sleep through most of Saturday. You know why?”
“No, I don’t know why you would get drunk. You did nothing wrong. You did your job with that guy Galloway or whatever his name was.”
“I drink Friday nights so I am out of it Saturdays because Saturdays were when I used to see my daughter. His name was Gallagher, Sean Gallagher, and it doesn’t matter if I was doing my job. People died and it’s on me, Legal. You can’t hide behind just doing your job when two people get creamed at an intersection by the guy you set free. Anyway, I gotta go.”
I stood up and showed him the phone as if it were the reason I needed to go.
“What, I don’t see you for a month and now you already have to go? I’m not finished with my sandwich here.”
“I saw you last Tuesday, Legal. And I’ll see you sometime next week. If not then, then the week after. You hang in and hold fast.”
“Hold fast? What’s that supposed to mean?”
“It means hold on to what you got. My half brother, the cop, told me that one. Finish that sandwich before they come in here and take it from you.”
I moved toward the door.
“Hey, Mickey Mouse.”
I turned back to him. It was the name he bestowed on me when I was a baby, born at four and a half pounds. Normally I’d tell him not to call me that anymore. But I let him have it so I could go.
“What?”
“Your father always called the jurors the ‘gods of guilt.’ You remember that?”
“Yep. Because they decide guilty or not guilty. What’s your point, Legal?”
“The point is that there are plenty of people out there judging us every day of our lives and for every move we make. The gods of guilt are many. You don’t need to add to them.”
I nodded but couldn’t resist a reply.
“Sandy Patterson and her daughter Katie.”
Legal looked confused by my response. He didn’t recognize the names. I, of course, would never forget them.
“The mother and daughter Gallagher killed. They’re my gods of guilt.”
I closed the door behind me and left the do not disturb sign on the knob. Maybe he’d get the sandwich down before the nurses checked on him and discovered our crime.