“He’ll be lucky to last five years in there, let alone twenty,” Vincent said. “What’s the difference to him? But you and I? We’re going places, Mickey. We can help each other here.”
I nodded slowly. Vincent was only a few years older than me but was trying to act like some kind of wise old sage.
“The thing is, Jerry, if I did what you suggest, then I’d never be able to look another client in the eye again. I think I’d end up being the dope that got roped.”
I stood up and gathered my files. My plan was to go back and tell Barnett Woodson to roll the dice and let me see what I could do.
“I’ll see you after the break,” I said.
And then I walked away.
– Suitcase City
2007
It was a little early in the week for Lorna Taylor to be calling and checking on me. Usually she waited until at least Thursday. Never Tuesday. I picked up the phone, thinking it was more than a check-in call.
“Lorna?”
“Mickey, where’ve you been? I’ve been calling all morning.”
“I went for my run. I just got out of the shower. You okay?”
“I’m fine. Are you?”
“Sure. What is-?”
“You got a forthwith from Judge Holder. She wants to see you – like an hour ago.”
This gave me pause.
“About what?”
“I don’t know. All I know is first Michaela called, then the judge herself called. That usually doesn’t happen. She wanted to know why you weren’t responding.”
I knew that Michaela was Michaela Gill, the judge’s clerk. And Mary Townes Holder was the chief judge of the Los Angeles Superior Court. The fact that she had called personally didn’t make it sound like they were inviting me to the annual justice ball. Mary Townes Holder didn’t call lawyers without a good reason.
“What did you tell her?”
“I just said you didn’t have court today and you might be out on the golf course.”
“I don’t play golf, Lorna.”
“Look, I couldn’t think of anything.”
“It’s all right, I’ll call the judge. Give me the number.”
“Mickey, don’t call. Just go. The judge wants to
“Okay, I’m going. I have to get dressed.”
“Mickey?”
“What?”
“How are you really doing?”
I knew her code. I knew what she was asking. She didn’t want me appearing in front of a judge if I wasn’t ready for it.
“You don’t have to worry, Lorna. I’m fine. I’ll be fine.”
“Okay. Call me and let me know what is going on as soon as you can.”
“Don’t worry. I will.”
I hung up the phone, feeling like I was being bossed around by my wife, not my ex-wife.
As the chief judge of the Los Angeles Superior Court, Judge Mary Townes Holder did most of her work behind closed doors. Her courtroom was used on occasion for emergency hearings on motions but rarely used for trials. Her work was done out of the view of the public. In chambers. Her job largely pertained to the administration of the justice system in Los Angeles County. More than two hundred fifty judgeships and forty courthouses fell under her purview. Every jury summons that went into the mail had her name on it, and every assigned parking space in a courthouse garage had her approval. She assigned judges by both geography and designation of law – criminal, civil, juvenile and family. When judges were newly elected to the bench, it was Judge Holder who decided whether they sat in Beverly Hills or Compton, and whether they heard high-stakes financial cases in civil court or soul-draining divorce cases in family court.
I had dressed quickly in what I considered my lucky suit. It was an Italian import from Corneliani that I used to wear on verdict days. Since I hadn’t been in court for a year, or heard a verdict for even longer, I had to take it out of a plastic bag hanging in the back of the closet. After that I sped downtown without delay, thinking that I might be headed toward some sort of verdict on myself. As I drove, my mind raced over the cases and clients I had left behind a year earlier. As far as I knew, nothing had been left open or on the table. But maybe there had been a complaint or the judge had picked up on some courthouse gossip and was running her own inquiry. Regardless, I entered Holder’s courtroom with a lot of trepidation. A summons from any judge was usually not good news; a summons from the chief judge was even worse.
The courtroom was dark and the clerk’s pod next to the bench was empty. I walked through the gate and was heading toward the door to the back hallway, when it opened and the clerk stepped through it. Michaela Gill was a pleasant-looking woman who reminded me of my third-grade teacher. But she wasn’t expecting to find a man approaching the other side of the door when she opened it. She startled and nearly let out a shriek. I quickly identified myself before she could make a run for the panic button on the judge’s bench. She caught her breath and then ushered me back without delay.
