The Brass Verdict

I walked down the hallway and found the judge alone in her chambers, working at a massive desk made of dark wood. Her black robe was hanging on a hat rack in the corner. She was dressed in a maroon suit with a conservative cut. She was attractive and neat, midfifties with a slim build and brown hair kept in a short, no-nonsense style.

I had never met Judge Holder before but I knew about her. She had put twenty years in as a prosecutor before being appointed to the bench by a conservative governor. She presided over criminal cases, had a few of the big ones, and was known for handing out maximum sentences. Consequently, she had been easily retained by the electorate after her first term. She had been elected chief judge four years later and had held the position ever since.

“Mr. Haller, thank you for coming,” she said. “I’m glad your secretary finally found you.”

There was an impatient if not imperious tone to her voice.

“She’s not actually my secretary, Judge. But she found me. Sorry it took so long.”

“Well, you’re here. I don’t believe we have met before, have we?”

“I don’t think so.”

“Well, this will betray my age but I actually opposed your father in a trial once. One of his last cases, I believe.”

I had to readjust my estimate of her age. She would have to be at least sixty if she had ever been in a courtroom with my father.

“I was actually third chair on a case, just out of USC Law and green as can be. They were trying to give me some trial exposure. It was a murder case and they let me handle one witness. I prepared a week for my examination and your father destroyed the man on cross in ten minutes. We won the case but I never forgot the lesson. Be prepared for anything.”

I nodded. Over the years I had met several older lawyers who had Mickey Haller Sr. stories to share. I had very few of my own. Before I could ask the judge about the case on which she’d met him, she pressed on.

“But that’s not why I called you here,” she said.

“I didn’t think so, Judge. It sounded like you have something… kind of urgent?”

“I do. Did you know Jerry Vincent?”

I was immediately thrown by her use of the past tense.

“Jerry? Yes, I know Jerry. What about him?”

“He’s dead.”

“Dead?”

“Murdered, actually.”

“When?”

“Last night. I’m sorry.”

My eyes dropped and I looked at the nameplate on her desk. Honorable M. T. Holder was carved in script into a two-dimensional wooden display that held a ceremonial gavel and a fountain pen and inkwell.

“How close were you?” she asked.

It was a good question and I didn’t really know the answer. I kept my eyes down as I spoke.

“We had cases against each other when he was with the DA and I was at the PD. We both left for private practice around the same time and both of us had one-man shops. Over the years we worked some cases together, a couple of drug trials, and we sort of covered for each other when it was needed. He threw me a case occasionally when it was something he didn’t want to handle.”

I had had a professional relationship with Jerry Vincent. Every now and then we clicked glasses at Four Green Fields or saw each other at a ball game at Dodger Stadium. But for me to say we were close would have been an exaggeration. I knew little about him outside of the world of law. I had heard about a divorce a while back on the courthouse gossip line but had never even asked him about it. That was personal information and I didn’t need to know it.

“You seem to forget, Mr. Haller, but I was with the DA back when Mr. Vincent was a young up-and-comer. But then he lost a big case and his star faded. That was when he left for private practice.”

I looked at the judge but said nothing.

“And I seem to recall that you were the defense attorney on that case,” she added.

I nodded.

“Barnett Woodson. I got an acquittal on a double murder. He walked out of the courtroom and sarcastically apologized to the media for getting away with murder. He had to rub the DA’s face in it and that pretty much ended Jerry’s career as a prosecutor.”

“Then, why would he ever work with you or throw you cases?”

“Because, Judge, by ending his career as a prosecutor, I started his career as a defense attorney.”

I left it at that but it wasn’t enough for her.

“And?”

“And a couple of years later he was making about five times what he had made with the DA. He called me up one day and thanked me for showing him the light.”

The judge nodded knowingly.

“It came down to money. He wanted the money.”

I shrugged like I was uncomfortable answering for a dead man and didn’t respond.

“What happened to your client?” the judge asked. “What became of the man who got away with murder?”

“He would’ve been better off taking a conviction. Woodson got killed in a drive-by about two months after the acquittal.”

The judge nodded again, this time as if to say end of story, justice served. I tried to put the focus back on Jerry Vincent.

“I can’t believe this about Jerry. Do you know what happened?”