pick him up. Since you have a window, you can pinch-hit for her, if you don’t mind.”
Lorrie is one of the younger lawyers in the department; she handles arraignments. Arraignment presentation, the first appearance a defendant makes before a judge after being arrested, is one of the ways we break in new lawyers. The only time an experienced member of the staff does one is in unexpected circumstances like this. After defendants plead out, almost always not guilty, they are assigned the lawyer who will be with them for the remainder of their case. Selection is random—new case files, comprising a police report, rap sheet (if there is one), and the charges, show up in your mailbox, or they’ll be left on your desk, sometimes half a dozen at once. New assignments can be aggravating, because everyone feels like they’re overworked, and everyone is always complaining about the heavy caseload. The average number of active files for a senior PD is about thirty cases. The exception is murder cases. No one has more than two or three murder cases pending, because if one does go to trial, that’s all you work on; others on the staff have to pick up the rest of your work, so the system tries not to overburden any particular member. Sometimes, however, the distribution isn’t always equitable.
“No problem,” I tell him about pinch-hitting for Lorrie, who’s a sweetheart when she isn’t stressed by juggling being a mother to three young children and a full-time professional. We’re a collegial group—we try to help out each other. When you work for the government, your salary is set by number of years in service and department rank, not by how many cases you handle or win. It makes for a less ego-driven environment than the private sector, which is one reason I’m still here. “Where is it?”
“Department 83, Judge Rosen,” Joe tells me.
Judge Rosen’s first name is Judith. You call her Judge Judy at your peril. Other than that, she’s okay—competent, fair, and not too impatient.
“What’s the charge?” I ask, tossing the folder onto my cluttered desktop. I’ll look at it later; I don’t mix lunch with work.
“Grand theft. Sony hi-def televisions. Plasma, top of the line. It’s in the arrest report, which I trust you’ll read before your initial meet and greet.”
“I could use a new TV,” I banter back. Joe’s an easy boss to work for; he isn’t full of himself. “Think there’s any spares?”
“You mean after the boys in blue took their piece off the top?” he replies. “Chat up the arresting officers; maybe you can cut a deal. Eyes wide shut.”
“I’m on the wrong side of the aisle, Chief. As you always remind us.”
“All cats are gray in the dark,” he tells me with no wit at all. Meaning, we’re all part of the same system, even though we like to pretend we aren’t. Joe has been a public defender for decades. His cynicism is deeply ingrained.
“It’s bright daylight out,” I reply, cocking a thumb at my window, where the half-drawn Venetian blinds are dissecting the piercing sunlight into long shadowy strips across the room. You can count on me to take the other side of almost any argument and mount a stout defense.
“For you, it is.” Joe raps a knuckle on the thin file. “For this chump and the rest of his tribe, it’s always lights out.”
I’m ahead of schedule, so I duck into the eighth-floor coffee bar to get a milkshake. I normally go with chocolate, but today I decide to be daring and try strawberry. The strawberry is sweeter, and I want an extra dose of sugar to knock down the garlic residue that’s still percolating in my stomach. I need to cut my salad dressing recipe back to two cloves.
“Did you hear the news?” a man asks from behind me.
I turn. It’s my nocturnal friend, LAPD detective Luis Cordova. Last night, when I saw him on his lonely vigil, he was wearing jeans, a black pocket T-shirt, scruffy New Balance running shoes, the same brand as
Lorrie is one of the younger lawyers in the department; she handles arraignments. Arraignment presentation, the first appearance a defendant makes before a judge after being arrested, is one of the ways we break in new lawyers. The only time an experienced member of the staff does one is in unexpected circumstances like this. After defendants plead out, almost always not guilty, they are assigned the lawyer who will be with them for the remainder of their case. Selection is random—new case files, comprising a police report, rap sheet (if there is one), and the charges, show up in your mailbox, or they’ll be left on your desk, sometimes half a dozen at once. New assignments can be aggravating, because everyone feels like they’re overworked, and everyone is always complaining about the heavy caseload. The average number of active files for a senior PD is about thirty cases. The exception is murder cases. No one has more than two or three murder cases pending, because if one does go to trial, that’s all you work on; others on the staff have to pick up the rest of your work, so the system tries not to overburden any particular member. Sometimes, however, the distribution isn’t always equitable.
“No problem,” I tell him about pinch-hitting for Lorrie, who’s a sweetheart when she isn’t stressed by juggling being a mother to three young children and a full-time professional. We’re a collegial group—we try to help out each other. When you work for the government, your salary is set by number of years in service and department rank, not by how many cases you handle or win. It makes for a less ego-driven environment than the private sector, which is one reason I’m still here. “Where is it?”
“Department 83, Judge Rosen,” Joe tells me.
Judge Rosen’s first name is Judith. You call her Judge Judy at your peril. Other than that, she’s okay—competent, fair, and not too impatient.
“What’s the charge?” I ask, tossing the folder onto my cluttered desktop. I’ll look at it later; I don’t mix lunch with work.
“Grand theft. Sony hi-def televisions. Plasma, top of the line. It’s in the arrest report, which I trust you’ll read before your initial meet and greet.”
“I could use a new TV,” I banter back. Joe’s an easy boss to work for; he isn’t full of himself. “Think there’s any spares?”
“You mean after the boys in blue took their piece off the top?” he replies. “Chat up the arresting officers; maybe you can cut a deal. Eyes wide shut.”
“I’m on the wrong side of the aisle, Chief. As you always remind us.”
“All cats are gray in the dark,” he tells me with no wit at all. Meaning, we’re all part of the same system, even though we like to pretend we aren’t. Joe has been a public defender for decades. His cynicism is deeply ingrained.
“It’s bright daylight out,” I reply, cocking a thumb at my window, where the half-drawn Venetian blinds are dissecting the piercing sunlight into long shadowy strips across the room. You can count on me to take the other side of almost any argument and mount a stout defense.
“For you, it is.” Joe raps a knuckle on the thin file. “For this chump and the rest of his tribe, it’s always lights out.”
I’m ahead of schedule, so I duck into the eighth-floor coffee bar to get a milkshake. I normally go with chocolate, but today I decide to be daring and try strawberry. The strawberry is sweeter, and I want an extra dose of sugar to knock down the garlic residue that’s still percolating in my stomach. I need to cut my salad dressing recipe back to two cloves.
“Did you hear the news?” a man asks from behind me.
I turn. It’s my nocturnal friend, LAPD detective Luis Cordova. Last night, when I saw him on his lonely vigil, he was wearing jeans, a black pocket T-shirt, scruffy New Balance running shoes, the same brand as
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