The Lincoln Lawyer: A Novel Read Free

a suspect’s property does not violate an individual’s right to privacy so long as the aircraft is
     in public airspace. I had Raul Levin, my investigator, check with the Federal Aviation Administration. Casey’s ranch was located
     beneath no airport flight pattern. The floor for public airspace above the ranch wasa thousand feet. The deputies had clearly invaded Casey’s privacy while gathering the probable cause to raid the ranch.
    My job now was to take the case to trial and elicit testimony from the deputies and pilot as to the altitude they were flying
     when they went over the ranch. If they told the truth, I had them. If they lied, I had them. I don’t relish the idea of embarrassing
     law enforcement officers in open court, but my hope was that they would lie. If a jury sees a cop lie on the witness stand,
     then the case might as well end right there. You don’t have to appeal a not-guilty verdict. The state has no comebacks from
     a not-guilty verdict.
    Either way, I was confident I had a winner. We just had to get to trial and there was only one thing holding us back. That
     was what I needed to talk to Casey about before the judge took the bench and called the case.
    My client sauntered over to the corner of the pen and didn’t offer a hello. I didn’t, either. He knew what I wanted. We’d
     had this conversation before.
    “Harold, this is calendar call,” I said. “This is when I tell the judge if we’re ready to go to trial. I already know the
     state’s ready. So today’s about us.”
    “So?”
    “So, there’s a problem. Last time we were here you told me I’d be getting some money. But here we are, Harold, and no money.”
    “Don’t worry. I have your money.”
    “That’s why I am worried.
You
have my money. I don’t have my money.”
    “It’s coming. I talked to my boys yesterday. It’s coming.”
    “You said that last time, too. I don’t work for free, Harold. The expert I had go over the photos doesn’t work for free, either.
     Your retainer is long gone. I want some more money or you’re going to have to get yourself a new lawyer. A public defender.”
    “No PD, man. I want you.”
    “Well, I got expenses and I gotta eat. You know what my nut is each week just to pay for the yellow pages? Take a guess.”
    Casey said nothing.
    “A grand. Averages out a grand a week just to keep my ad in there and that’s before I eat or pay the mortgage or the child
     support or put gas in the Lincoln. I’m not doing this on a promise, Harold. I work on green inspiration.”
    Casey seemed unimpressed.
    “I checked around,” he said. “You can’t just quit on me. Not now. The judge won’t let you.”
    A hush fell over the courtroom as the judge stepped out of the door to his chambers and took the two steps up to the bench.
     The bailiff called the courtroom to order. It was showtime. I just looked at Casey for a long moment and stepped away. He
     had an amateur, jailhouse knowledge of the law and how it worked. He knew more than most. But he was still in for a surprise.
    I took a seat against the rail behind the defendant’s table. The first case called was a bail reconsideration that was handled
     quickly. Then the clerk called the case of
California v. Casey
and I stepped up to the table.
    “Michael Haller for the defense,” I said.
    The prosecutor announced his presence as well. He was a young guy named Victor DeVries. He had no idea what was going to hit
     him when we got to trial. Judge Orton Powell made the usual inquiries about whether a last-minute disposition in the case
     was possible. Every judge had an overflowing calendar and an overriding mandate to clear cases through disposition. The last
     thing any judge wanted to hear was that there was no hope of agreement and that a trial was inevitable.
    But Powell took the bad news from DeVries and me in stride and asked if we were ready to schedule the trial for later in the
     week. DeVries said yes. I said no.
    “Your