Mickey Haller 4 - The Fifth Witness

the state’s case by potshotting much of the evidence, then closed out the week with Lisa Trammel’s denial and claim to be the victim of a setup, and my forensic witness’s supposition that it was physically impossible for the defendant to commit the crime. Unless, of course, she happened to strike the fatal blow to the victim while he was looking straight up at the ceiling of the parking garage.
    I believed these were powerful seeds of doubt. Things felt good to me and when I finished packing my briefcase, I lingered at the defense table, looking through a file for something that wasn’t really there. I was half expecting Freeman to come over and beg me to sell my client a plea bargain.
    But it didn’t happen. When I looked up from my phony busywork she was gone.
    I took the elevator down to two. The judges might all be getting off early for a meeting on the eroding rules of courtroom decorum, but I figured the DA’s office was still working until five. I asked at the counter for Maggie McPherson and was allowed back. She shared an office with another deputy DA but luckily he was on vacation. We were alone. I pulled the missing man’s chair away from his desk and sat down in front of Maggie.
    “I came by court a couple times today,” she said. “Watched some of your direct with the lady from John Jay. She’s a good witness.”
    “Yeah, she’s good. And I saw you there. I didn’t know who you were there for—me or Freeman.”
    She smiled.
    “Maybe I was there for myself. I still learn things from you, Haller.”
    Now I smiled.
    “Maggie McFierce learning from me? Really?”
    “Well—”
    “No, don’t answer that.”
    We both laughed.
    “Either way, I’m glad you came by,” I said. “What’s going on this weekend with you and Hay?”
    “I don’t know. We’ll be around. You have to work, I guess.”
    I nodded.
    “We have to track somebody down, I think. And Monday and Tuesday are going to be the biggest days of the trial. But maybe we can do a movie or something.”
    “Sure.”
    We were silent for a few moments. I had just come off one of my best days in court ever, yet I felt pierced by a growing sense of loss and sadness. I looked at my ex-wife.
    “We’re never going to get back together, are we, Maggie?”
    “What?”
    “It just kind of hit me. You want it the way it is now. There when one of us really needs it, but never what it was. You won’t ever give me that.”
    “Why do you want to talk about this now, Michael? You’re in the middle of a trial. You have—”
    “I’m in the middle of my life, Mags. I just wish there was a way to make you and Hayley proud of me.”
    She leaned forward and reached out. She put her hand against my cheek for a moment and then pulled it back.
    “I think Hayley is proud of you.”
    “Yeah? What about you?”
    She smiled but it was sort of in a sad way.
    “I think you should go home and not think about this or the trial or anything else just for tonight. Let your mind clear of the clutter. Relax.”
    I shook my head.
    “Can’t. I have a meeting at five with a snitch.”
    “On the Trammel case? What snitch?”
    “Never mind, and you’re just trying to change the subject. You’ll never completely forgive and forget, will you? It’s not in you and maybe it’s what makes you such a good prosecutor.”
    “Oh, I’m so good all right. That’s why I’m stuck out here in Van Nuys filing armed robberies.”
    “That’s politics. Has nothing to do with skills and dedication.”
    “It doesn’t matter and I can’t have this conversation now. I’m still on the clock and you need to go see your snitch. Why don’t you call me tomorrow if you want to take Hayley to a movie. I’ll probably let you take her while I run errands or something.”
    I stood up. I knew a losing cause when I saw one.
    “Okay, I’m leaving. I’ll call you tomorrow. But I hope you’ll come with us to the movie.”
    “We’ll see.”
    “Right.”
    I took the stairs down for a quick exit. I crossed the plaza and headed north on Sylmar toward Victory. I soon came to a motorcycle parked at the curb. I recognized it as Cisco’s. A prized ’63 H-D panhead with a black pearl tank and matching fenders. I chuckled. Lorna, my second ex-wife, had actually done what I had told her to do. It was a first.
    She had left the bike unlocked, probably figuring it was safe in front of the courthouse and adjoining police station. I steered it away from the curb and walked it