I closed the file as Cisco stopped the Lincoln in front of Archway Studios. There were a number of picketers walking the sidewalk. They were writers on strike, holding up red-and-white signs that said WE WANT A FAIR SHARE! and WRITERS UNITED! Some signs showed a fist holding a pen. Another said YOUR FAVORITE LINE? A WRITER WROTE IT. Anchored on the sidewalk was a large blow-up figure of a pig smoking a cigar with the word PRODUCER branded on its rear end. The pig and most of the signs were well-worn clichés and I would have thought that with the protesters being writers, they would have come up with something better. But maybe that kind of creativity happened only when they were getting paid.
I had ridden in the backseat for the sake of appearances on this first stop. I was hoping that Elliot might catch a glimpse of me through his office window and take me for an attorney of great means and skill. But the writers saw a Lincoln with a rider in the back and thought I was a producer. As we turned into the studio, they descended on the car with their signs and started chanting, “Greedy Bastard! Greedy Bastard!” Cisco gunned it and plowed through, a few of the hapless scribes dodging the fenders.
“Careful!” I barked. “All I need is to run over an out-of-work writer.”
“Don’t worry,” Cisco replied calmly. “They always scatter.”
“Not this time.”
When he got up to the guardhouse, Cisco pulled forward enough that my window was even with the door. I checked to make sure none of the writers had followed us onto studio property and then lowered the glass so I could speak to the man who stepped out. His uniform was a beige color with a dark brown tie and matching epaulets. It looked ridiculous.
“Can I help you?”
“I’m Walter Elliot’s attorney. I don’t have an appointment but I need to see him right away.”
“Can I see your driver’s license?”
I got it out and handed it through the window.
“I am handling this for Jerry Vincent. That’s the name Mr. Elliot’s secretary will recognize.”
The guard went into the booth and slid the door closed. I didn’t know if this was to keep the air-conditioning from escaping or to prevent me from hearing what was said when he picked up the phone. Whatever the reason, he soon slid the door back open and extended the phone to me, his hand covering the mouthpiece.
“Mrs. Albrecht is Mr. Elliot’s executive assistant. She wants to speak to you.”
I took the phone.
“Hello?”
“Mr. Haller, is it? What is this all about? Mr. Elliot has dealt exclusively with Mr. Vincent on this matter and there is no appointment on his calendar.”
This matter. It was a strange way of referring to double charges of murder.
“Mrs. Albrecht, I’d rather not talk about this at the front gate. As you can imagine, it’s quite a delicate ‘matter,’ to use your word. Can I come to the office and see Mr. Elliot?”
I turned in my seat and looked out the back window. There were two cars in the guardhouse queue behind my Lincoln. They must not have been producers. The writers had let them through unmolested.
“I’m afraid that’s not good enough, Mr. Haller. Can I place you on hold while I call Mr. Vincent?”
“You won’t get through to him.”
“He’ll take a call from Mr. Elliot, I am sure.”
“I am sure he won’t, Mrs. Albrecht. Jerry Vincent’s dead. That’s why I’m here.”
I looked at Cisco’s reflection in the rearview mirror and shrugged as though to say I had no choice but to hit her with the news. The plan had been to finesse my way through the arch and then be the one to personally tell Elliot his lawyer was dead.
“Excuse me, Mr. Haller. Did you say Mr. Vincent is… dead?”
“That’s what I said. And I’m his court-appointed replacement. Can I come in now?”
“Yes, of course.”
I handed the phone back and soon the gate opened.
We were assigned to a prime parking space in the executive lot. I told Cisco to wait in the car and went in alone, carrying the two thick files Vincent had put together on the case. One contained discovery materials turned over so far by the prosecution, including the important investigative documents and interview transcripts, and the other contained documents and other work product generated by Vincent during the five months he had handled the case. Between the two files I was able to get a good handle on what the prosecution had and didn’t have, and the direction in which the prosecutor wanted to take the trial. There was still work to be done and pieces were missing from the defense’s case and strategy. Perhaps those pieces had been carried in Jerry Vincent’s head, or in his laptop or on the legal pad in his portfolio, but unless the cops arrested a suspect and recovered the stolen property, whatever was there would be of no help to me.
