a smooth and creamy voice. “I have.”
“Then take a seat.”
The entire team had been waiting with Lieutenant Barrera in the captain’s office for over an hour, along with Roy Wemer, the deputy district attorney assigned to the case. Captain Dillworth was away on an early vacation, cruising the Mediterranean with his wife in anticipation of murder season, which usually got under way in June. But even when the captain was in town, his office was regularly used by detectives and never locked. The only conference table on the third floor was in this office, the end of the table pushed against the front of his desk. And the homicide logs were here—a library of bound ledgers summarizing every murder that occurred inthe county dating back to the nineteenth century. Lena found these books fascinating. Over the past two months, she’d examined the logs whenever she had a few minutes’ downtime or decided she needed a break. The books were split into two sections, the first amounting to a list of homicides kept in chronological order and filled in by hand. Beside the victim’s name was a page number referencing the case summary. The summaries were no longer than a paragraph or two, detailing the major components of the crime. And every time Lena read one she was reminded of how much the world had changed. How neurotic things were becoming with the march of progress in the so-called Technological Age. Between 1899 and 1929, the entire homicide log filled a single book. By the 1960s, a new volume was required for each year.
Buddy Paladino entered the room.
Lena watched the defense attorney settle into the open chair at the head of the conference table. His dark hair was cropped short and combed so neatly it could have been painted on his narrow skull with an airbrush. His suit and shirt were obviously handmade. She noted the manicured fingernails, the silk tie and gold watch, trying to calculate how much money it might take to get Buddy Paladino dressed and ready for the world every morning.
More than the value of her car, she figured. Maybe twice that.
It was 10:00 a.m. Saturday morning. Paladino had returned to Los Angeles from San Francisco on the first plane out. He arrived at Parker Center an hour and fifteen minutes ago, ordered coffee and croissants for his client, then closed the door to Room 2. Now he sat before them with his legs crossed, beaming from head to toe like a man who thrived on having an audience. Any audience, Lena imagined. Even a room stacked heavy with cops.
Buddy Paladino had made his mark as a criminal defense attorney after the 1992 riots. Most of his clients in the early days were underdogs. Most of his cases, pure fiction. Hebegan by targeting the department and soaking the taxpayers for hundreds of millions of dollars in damages. Although his courtroom antics were oftentimes outrageous, his techniques were flawless. A rumor was circulating through the department that Harvard Law School was devoting an entire course to his work next year and calling it “Precision: A Trial Attorney in the Real World.”
Once Paladino started to make headlines, however, he switched gears and began representing only those clients who could afford his burgeoning fees. Lena remembered reading about a case he handled five or six years ago. A college student stood accused of plowing his car through a crowd of people on a street that was shut down for October-fest. Three people died, fifteen more were injured, and a blood test indicated that the boy behind the wheel was using PCP. A bystander recorded the crime on videotape, and more than ten witnesses, including the student’s roommate, claimed the act had been deliberate. But the boy’s father was the CEO of TEC Energy Group and started writing checks payable to Buddy Paladino the night his son was arrested. In spite of the evidence, Paladino zeroed in on the car and its maintenance history. The mechanic owned a successful business but was a reformed
“Then take a seat.”
The entire team had been waiting with Lieutenant Barrera in the captain’s office for over an hour, along with Roy Wemer, the deputy district attorney assigned to the case. Captain Dillworth was away on an early vacation, cruising the Mediterranean with his wife in anticipation of murder season, which usually got under way in June. But even when the captain was in town, his office was regularly used by detectives and never locked. The only conference table on the third floor was in this office, the end of the table pushed against the front of his desk. And the homicide logs were here—a library of bound ledgers summarizing every murder that occurred inthe county dating back to the nineteenth century. Lena found these books fascinating. Over the past two months, she’d examined the logs whenever she had a few minutes’ downtime or decided she needed a break. The books were split into two sections, the first amounting to a list of homicides kept in chronological order and filled in by hand. Beside the victim’s name was a page number referencing the case summary. The summaries were no longer than a paragraph or two, detailing the major components of the crime. And every time Lena read one she was reminded of how much the world had changed. How neurotic things were becoming with the march of progress in the so-called Technological Age. Between 1899 and 1929, the entire homicide log filled a single book. By the 1960s, a new volume was required for each year.
Buddy Paladino entered the room.
Lena watched the defense attorney settle into the open chair at the head of the conference table. His dark hair was cropped short and combed so neatly it could have been painted on his narrow skull with an airbrush. His suit and shirt were obviously handmade. She noted the manicured fingernails, the silk tie and gold watch, trying to calculate how much money it might take to get Buddy Paladino dressed and ready for the world every morning.
More than the value of her car, she figured. Maybe twice that.
It was 10:00 a.m. Saturday morning. Paladino had returned to Los Angeles from San Francisco on the first plane out. He arrived at Parker Center an hour and fifteen minutes ago, ordered coffee and croissants for his client, then closed the door to Room 2. Now he sat before them with his legs crossed, beaming from head to toe like a man who thrived on having an audience. Any audience, Lena imagined. Even a room stacked heavy with cops.
Buddy Paladino had made his mark as a criminal defense attorney after the 1992 riots. Most of his clients in the early days were underdogs. Most of his cases, pure fiction. Hebegan by targeting the department and soaking the taxpayers for hundreds of millions of dollars in damages. Although his courtroom antics were oftentimes outrageous, his techniques were flawless. A rumor was circulating through the department that Harvard Law School was devoting an entire course to his work next year and calling it “Precision: A Trial Attorney in the Real World.”
Once Paladino started to make headlines, however, he switched gears and began representing only those clients who could afford his burgeoning fees. Lena remembered reading about a case he handled five or six years ago. A college student stood accused of plowing his car through a crowd of people on a street that was shut down for October-fest. Three people died, fifteen more were injured, and a blood test indicated that the boy behind the wheel was using PCP. A bystander recorded the crime on videotape, and more than ten witnesses, including the student’s roommate, claimed the act had been deliberate. But the boy’s father was the CEO of TEC Energy Group and started writing checks payable to Buddy Paladino the night his son was arrested. In spite of the evidence, Paladino zeroed in on the car and its maintenance history. The mechanic owned a successful business but was a reformed
Similar Books
