The Lincoln Lawyer - Michael Connelly [76]
The Lincoln pulled up and I gave the man in the red jacket a couple dollars. I exited the airport and drove south on Hollywood Way toward the center of Burbank, where all the studios were. I got to the Smoke House ahead of Levin and ordered a martini at the bar. On the overhead TV was an update on the start of the college basketball tournament. Florida had defeated Ohio in the first round. The headline on the bottom of the screen said “March Madness” and I toasted my glass to it. I knew what real March Madness was beginning to feel like.
Levin came in and ordered a beer before we sat down to dinner. It was still green, left over from the night before. Must have been a slow night. Maybe everybody had gone to Four Green Fields.
“Nothing like hair of the dog that bit ya, as long as it’s green hair,” he said in that brogue that was getting old.
He sipped the level of the glass down so he could walk with it and we stepped out to the hostess station so we could go to a table. She led us to a red padded booth that was shaped like a U. We sat across from each other and I put my briefcase down next to me. When the waitress came for a cocktail order we ordered the whole shooting match: salads, steaks and potatoes. I also asked for an order of the restaurant’s signature garlic cheese bread.
“Good thing you don’t like going out on weekends,” I said to Levin after she was gone. “You eat the cheese bread and your breath will probably kill anybody you come in contact with after this.”
“I’ll have to take my chances.”
We were quiet for a long moment after that. I could feel the vodka working its way into my guilt. I would be sure to order another when the salads came.
“So?” Levin finally said. “You called the meeting.”
I nodded.
“I want to tell you a story. Not all of the details are set or known. But I’ll tell it to you in the way I think it goes and then you tell me what you think and what I should do. Okay?”
“I like stories. Go ahead.”
“I don’t think you’ll like this one. It starts two years ago with—”
I stopped and waited while the waitress put down our salads and the cheese bread. I asked for another vodka martini even though I was only halfway through the one I had. I wanted to make sure there was no gap.
“So,” I said after she was gone. “This whole thing starts two years ago with Jesus Menendez. You remember him, right?”
“Yeah, we mentioned him the other day. The DNA. He’s the client you always say is in prison because he wiped his prick on a fluffy pink towel.”
He smiled because it was true that I had often reduced Menendez’s case to such an absurdly vulgar basis. I had often used it to get a laugh when trading war stories at Four Green Fields with other lawyers. That was before I knew what I now knew.
I did not return the smile.
“Yeah, well, it turns out Jesus didn’t do it.”
“What do you mean? Somebody else wiped his prick on the towel?”
This time Levin laughed out loud.
“No, you don’t get it. I’m telling you Jesus Menendez was innocent.”
Levin’s face grew serious. He nodded, putting something together.
“He’s in San Quentin. You were up at the Q today.”
I nodded.
“Let me back up and tell the story,” I said. “You didn’t do much work for me on Menendez because there was nothing to be done. They had the DNA, his own incriminating statement and three witnesses who saw him throw a knife into the river. They never found the knife but they had the witnesses—his own roommates. It was a hopeless case. Truth is, I took it on the come line for publicity value. So basically all I did was walk him to a plea. He didn’t like it, said he didn’t do it, but there was no choice. The DA was going for the death penalty. He’d have gotten that or life without. I got him life with and I made the little fucker take it. I made him.”
I looked down at my untouched salad.