The Lincoln Lawyer - Michael Connelly [40]
“And he hasn’t sentenced you yet. You want to blow the deal?”
McGinley stepped back from me and looked up at the judge.
“Sorry about my language, Y’Honor. I come from the street.”
“I can tell that,” Flynn said. “Well, it is a shame you feel that way about your history. But if you don’t care about your name, then I don’t either. Let’s get on with the sentencing and get you off to prison, shall we?”
He said the last part cheerfully, as if he were taking great delight in sending McGinley off to Disneyland, the happiest place on earth.
The sentencing went by quickly after that. There was nothing in the presentencing investigation report besides what everybody already knew. Darius McGinley had had only one profession since age eleven, drug dealer. He’d had only one true family, a gang. He’d never gotten a driver’s license, though he drove a BMW. He’d never gotten married, though he’d fathered three babies. It was the same old story and same old cycle trotted out a dozen times a day in courtrooms across the county. McGinley lived in a society that intersected mainstream America only in the courtrooms. He was just fodder for the machine. The machine needed to eat and McGinley was on the plate. Flynn sentenced him to the agreed-upon three to five years in prison and read all of the standard legal language that came with a plea agreement. For laughs—though only his own courtroom staff complied—he read the boilerplate using his brogue again. And then it was over.
I know McGinley dealt death and destruction in the form of rock cocaine and probably committed untold violence and other offenses he was never charged with, but I still felt bad for him. I felt like he was another one who’d never had a shot at anything but thug life in the first place. He’d never known his father and had dropped out of school in the sixth grade to learn the rock trade. He could accurately count money in a rock house but he had never had a checking account. He had never been to a county beach, let alone outside of Los Angeles. And now his first trip out would be on a bus with bars over the windows.
Before he was led back into the holding cell for processing and transfer to prison I shook his hand, his movement restricted by the waist chain, and wished him good luck. It is something I rarely do with my clients.
“No sweat,” he said to me. “I’ll be back.”
And I didn’t doubt it. In a way, Darius McGinley was just as much a franchise client as Louis Roulet. Roulet was most likely a one-shot deal. But over the years, I had a feeling McGinley would be one of what I call my “annuity clients.” He would be the gift that would keep on giving—as long as he defied the odds and kept on living.
I put the McGinley file in my briefcase and headed back through the gate while the next case was called. Outside the courtroom Raul Levin was waiting for me in the crowded hallway. We had a scheduled meeting to go over his findings in the Roulet case. He’d had to come to Compton because I had a busy schedule.
“Top o’ the morning,” Levin said in an exaggerated Irish accent.
“Yeah, you saw that?”
“I stuck my head in. The guy’s a bit of a racist, isn’t he?”
“And he can get away with it because ever since they unified the courts into one countywide district, his name goes on the ballot everywhere. Even if the people of Compton rose up like a wave to vote him off, the Westsiders could still cancel them out. It’s fucked up.”
“How’d he get on the bench in the first place?”
“Hey, you get a law degree and make the right contributions to the right people and you could be a judge, too. He was appointed by the governor. The hard part is winning that first retention election. He did. You’ve never heard the ‘In like Flynn’ story?”
“Nope.”
“You’ll love it. About six years ago Flynn gets his appointment from the governor. This is before unification. Back then judges were elected by the voters of the district where they presided. The supervising judge for L.A. County checks out his credentials and pretty quickly realizes that he’s got