The Brass Verdict

trial or disposition of the case, it would likely fly well below the media radar.
    My next thought was to suspect that there was a connection to the Elliot case. Vincent had found some sort of link.
    But on first read I couldn’t nail it down. There were two general connections in that the Wyms incident had happened less than twelve hours before the beach house murders and both crimes had occurred in the Sheriff’s Department’s Malibu district. But those connections didn’t hold up to further scrutiny. In terms of topography they weren’t remotely connected. The murders were on the beach and the Wyms shooting spree took place far inland, in the county park on the other side of the mountains. As far as I could recall, none of the names in the Wyms file were mentioned in the Elliot materials I had reviewed. The Wyms incident happened on the night shift; the Elliot murders on the day shift.
    I couldn’t nail down any specific connection and in great frustration closed the file with the question unanswered. I checked my watch and saw I had to get back to the CCB if I wanted time to meet my client in lockup before the two o’clock hearing.
    I called Patrick to come get me, paid for lunch and stepped out to the curb. I was on my cell, talking with Lorna, when the Lincoln pulled up and I jumped into the back.
    “Has Cisco met with Carlin yet?” I asked her.
    “No, that’s at two.”
    “Have Cisco ask him about the Wyms case, too.”
    “Okay, what about it?”
    “Ask him why Vincent even took it.”
    “You think they’re connected? Elliot and Wyms?”
    “I think it but I don’t see it.”
    “Okay, I’ll tell him.”
    “Anything else going on?”
    “Not at the moment. You’re getting a lot of calls from the media. Who’s this guy Jack McEvoy?”
    The name rang a bell but I couldn’t place it.
    “I don’t know. Who is he?”
    “He works at the
Times
. He called up all huffy about not hearing from you, saying you had an exclusive deal with him.”
    Now I remembered. The two-way street.
    “Don’t worry about him. I haven’t heard from him either. What else?”
    “Court TV wants to sit down and talk about Elliot. They’re going to carry live coverage throughout the trial, making it their feature, and so they’re hoping to get daily commentary from you at the end of court each day.”
    “What do you think, Lorna?”
    “I think it’s like free national advertising. You better do it. They told me they’re giving the trial its own logo wrap at the bottom of the screen. ‘Murder in Malibu,’ they’re calling it.”
    “Then, set it up. What else?”
    “Well, while we’re on the subject, I got a notice a week ago that your bus bench contract expires at the end of the month. I was just going to let it go because there was no money, but now you’re back and you’ve got money. Should we renew?”
    For the past six years I had advertised on bus benches strategically located in high-crime andtraffic locations around the city. Although I had dropped out for the past year, the benches still spawned a steady stream of calls, all of which Lorna deferred or referred.
    “That’s a two-year contract, right?”
    “Yes.”
    I made a quick decision.
    “Okay, renew it. Anything else?”
    “That’s it from here. Oh, wait. One other thing. The landlord for the building came in today. Called herself the leasing agent, which is just a fancy way of saying landlord. She wants to know if we’re going to keep the office. Jerry’s death is a lease breaker if we want it to be. I got the feeling there’s a waiting list on the building and this is an opportunity to jack the rent up for the next lawyer who comes in here.”
    I looked out the window of the Lincoln as we cruised across the 101 overpass and back into the civic center area. I could see the newly built Catholic cathedral and past that, the waving steel skin of the Disney Concert Hall. It caught the sunlight and took on a warm orange glow.
    “I don’t know, Lorna, I like working from the backseat here. It’s never boring. What do you think?”
    “I’m not particularly fond of putting on makeup every morning.”
    Meaning she liked working out of her condo more than she liked getting ready and driving downtown to an office each day. As usual, we were on the same page.
    “Something to think about,” I said. “No makeup. No office overhead. No fighting for a spot in the parking garage.”
    She didn’t respond. It was going to be my call. I