The Lincoln Lawyer

steps were tentative and I put my hand out to the wall and then the door casement as if needing my bearings. The polished wooden box was on the shelf where it was supposed to be. I reached up with both hands to bring it down and then walked it out to the bedroom.
    I put the box down on the bed and flipped open the brass latch. I raised the lid and pulled away the oilcloth covering.
    The gun was gone.

PART TWO. A World Without Truth

Monday, May 23

TWENTY-SEVEN
    T he check from Roulet cleared. On the first day of trial I had more money in my bank account than I’d ever had in my life. If I wanted, I could drop the bus benches and go with billboards. I could also take the back cover of the yellow pages instead of the half page I had inside. I could afford it. I finally had a franchise case and it had paid off. In terms of money, that is. The loss of Raul Levin would forever make this franchise a losing proposition.
    We had been through three days of jury selection and were now ready to put on the show. The trial was scheduled for another three days at the most-two for the prosecution and one for the defense. I had told the judge that I would need a day to put my case before the jury, but the truth was, most of my work would be done during the prosecution’s presentation.
    There’s always an electric feel to the start of a trial. A nervousness that attacks deep in the gut. So much is on the line. Reputation, personal freedom, the integrity of the system itself. Something about having those twelve strangers sit in judgment of your life and work always jumps things up inside. And I am referring to me, the defense attorney-the judgment of the defendant is a whole other thing. I’ve never gotten used to it, and the truth is, I never want to. I can only liken it to the anxiety and tension of standing at the front of a church on your wedding day. I’d had that experience twice and I was reminded of it every time a judge called a trial to order.
    Though my experience in trial work severely outweighed my opponent’s, there was no mistake about where I stood. I was one man standing before the giant maw of the system. Without a doubt I was the underdog. Yes, it was true that I faced a prosecutor in his first major felony trial. But that advantage was evened and then some by the power and might of the state. At the prosecutor’s command were the forces of the entire justice system. And against this all I had was myself. And a guilty client.
    I sat next to Louis Roulet at the defense table. We were alone. I had no second and no investigator behind me-out of some strange loyalty to Raul Levin I had not hired a replacement. I didn’t really need one, either. Levin had given me everything I needed. The trial and how it played out would serve as a last testament to his skills as an investigator.
    In the first row of the gallery sat C. C. Dobbs and Mary Alice Windsor. In accordance with a pretrial ruling, the judge was allowing Roulet’s mother to be in the courtroom during opening statements only. Because she was listed as a defense witness, she would not be allowed to listen to any of the testimony that followed. She would remain in the hallway outside, with her loyal lapdog Dobbs at her side, until I called her to the stand.
    Also in the first row but not seated next to them was my own support section: my ex-wife Lorna Taylor. She had gotten dressed up in a navy suit and white blouse. She looked beautiful and could have blended in easily with the phalanx of female attorneys who descended on the courthouse every day. But she was there for me and I loved her for it.
    The rest of the rows in the gallery were sporadically crowded. There were a few print reporters there to grab quotes from the opening statements and a few attorneys and citizen onlookers. No TV had shown up. The trial had not yet drawn more than cursory attention from the public, and this was good. This meant our strategy of publicity containment had worked well.
    Roulet and I were silent as we waited for the judge to take the bench and order the jury into the box so that we could begin. I was attempting to calm myself by rehearsing what I wanted to say to the jurors. Roulet was staring straight ahead at the State of California seal affixed to the front of the judge’s bench.
    The courtroom clerk took a phone call, said a few words and then hung up.
    “Two minutes, people,” he said loudly. “Two minutes.”
    When a judge called ahead to the courtroom, that