The Lincoln Lawyer

I don’t want to waste time on this. I want to get an investigator out and about on this thing before it hits the media and maybe before the cops talk to some of the people involved.”
    Dobbs slowly nodded.
    “Are those your standard fees?”
    “When I can get them. I’m worth it. What are you charging the family, Cecil?”
    I was sure he wouldn’t walk away from this little episode hungry.
    “That’s between me and my client. But don’t worry. I will include your fees in my discussion with Mrs. Windsor.”
    “I appreciate it. And remember, I need that investigator to start today.”
    I gave him a business card I pulled from the right pocket of my suit coat. The cards in the right pocket had my cell number. The cards in my left pocket had the number that went to Lorna Taylor.
    “I have another hearing downtown,” I said. “When you get him out call me and we’ll set up a meeting. Let’s make it as soon as possible. I should be available later today and tonight.”
    “Perfect,” Dobbs said, pocketing the card without looking at it. “Should we come to you?”
    “No, I’ll come to you. I’d like to see how the other half lives in those high-rises in Century City.”
    Dobbs smiled glibly.
    “It is obvious by your suit that you know and practice the adage that a trial lawyer should never dress too well. You want the jury to like you, not to be jealous of you. Well, Michael, a Century City lawyer can’t have an office that is nicer than the offices his clients come from. And so I can assure you that our offices are very modest.”
    I nodded in agreement. But I was insulted just the same. I was wearing my best suit. I always did on Mondays.
    “That’s good to know,” I said.
    The courtroom door opened and the videographer walked out, lugging his camera and folded tripod with him. Dobbs saw him and immediately tensed.
    “The media,” he said. “How can we control this? Mrs. Windsor won’t -”
    “Hold on a sec.”
    I called to the cameraman and he walked over. I immediately put my hand out. He had to put his tripod down to take it.
    “I’m Michael Haller. I saw you in there filming my client’s appearance.”
    Using my formal name was a code.
    “Robert Gillen,” the cameraman said. “People call me Sticks.”
    He gestured to his tripod in explanation. His use of his formal name was a return code. He was letting me know he understood that I had a play working here.
    “Are you freelancing or on assignment?” I asked.
    “Just freelancing today.”
    “How’d you hear about this thing?”
    He shrugged as though he was reluctant to answer.
    “A source. A cop.”
    I nodded. Gillen was locked in and playing along.
    “What do you get for that if you sell it to a news station?”
    “Depends. I take seven-fifty for an exclusive and five for a nonexclusive.”
    Nonexclusive
meant that any news director who bought the tape from him knew that he might sell the footage to a competing news station. Gillen had doubled the fees he actually got. It was a good move. He must have been listening to what had been said in the courtroom while he shot it.
    “Tell you what,” I said. “How about we take it off your hands right now for an exclusive?”
    Gillen was perfect. He hesitated like he was unsure of the ethics involved in the proposition.
    “In fact, make it a grand,” I said.
    “Okay,” he said. “You got a deal.”
    While Gillen put the camera on the floor and took the tape out of it, I pulled a wad of cash from my pocket. I had kept twelve hundred from the Saints cash Teddy Vogel had given me on the way down. I turned to Dobbs.
    “I can expense this, right?”
    “Absolutely,” he said. He was beaming.
    I exchanged the cash for the tape and thanked Gillen. He pocketed the money and moved toward the elevators a happy man.
    “That was brilliant,” Dobbs said. “We have to contain this. It could literally destroy the family’s business if this-in fact, I think that is one reason Mrs. Windsor was not here today. She didn’t want to be recognized.”
    “Well, we’ll have to talk about that if this thing goes the distance. Meantime, I’ll do my best to keep it off the radar.”
    “Thank you.”
    A cell phone began to play a classical number by Bach or Beethoven or some other dead guy with no copyright and Dobbs reached inside his jacket, retrieved the device and checked the small screen on it.
    “This is she,” he said.
    “Then I’ll leave you to it.”
    As I walked off I heard