I shook my head.
“Well, Judge,” I said. “I think you’re going to have to share it with me because I don’t really—”
“You intentionally drew me into holding you in contempt,” Coelho said.
“Judge, I don’t know what—”
“You needed time to conduct your DNA test before continuing the case. Don’t sit there and deny it.”
I looked down at my hands and spoke without looking at her.
“Uh, Judge, I think I’m going to take the Fifth on that.”
She said nothing. I looked back up at her.
“I should file a complaint with the California Bar for conduct unbecoming an attorney,” she said. “But that could significantly damage both your record and your reputation. As I said, you are a formidable advocate and we need more of them in the justice system.”
I started to breathe easier. She wanted to scare me, not destroy me.
“But your actions cannot go by without any consequences,” she continued. “I’m holding you in contempt, Mr. Haller. Again. I hope you have a toothbrush in your briefcase. You’re going to spend another night at MDC.”
She picked up the desk phone and pushed one number. I knew Gian was on the other end of that call.
“Please send Marshal Nate back,” she said.
She hung up the phone.
“Judge, isn’t there a fine I could pay?” I said. “A donation to the court’s favorite charity or—”
“No, there’s not,” she said.
Marshal Nate entered the room.
“Nate, please take Mr. Haller to holding,” Coelho said. “He’ll be spending the night at MDC.”
Nate looked puzzled and didn’t move.
“He’s being held in contempt,” the judge explained.
Nate moved forward and grabbed me by the arm.
“Let’s go,” he said.
50
It was a long night marked by a fellow inmate’s incessant howling. There was no rhyme or reason to it, just a repeated announcement of mental illness. Since sleep was not an option, I spent the time in the dark of my solo cell sitting on its thin mattress, my back to the concrete wall, toilet paper stuffed in my ears, thinking about prior moves and next moves in my life and work.
The Lucinda Sanz case felt like some sort of pivot to me, as though it might be time to move in a new direction. Chasing cases to feed the machine, grab headlines, and pay for billboards and bus benches — I could not see it being my final destination. I could no longer see it as even valid.
But a pivot to what?
My long night of discontent ended an hour before dawn when my breakfast was delivered — an apple and a bologna-on-white-bread sandwich. I hadn’t eaten since lunch with Bosch the day before, and the jail breakfast tasted as good as anything I’d ever had at Du-par’s or the Four Seasons.
The cell had a three-inch-wide escape-proof window. Soon after morning light started to filter in through the glass, a detention officer opened the door of my cell, dropped a bag containing my suit on the floor, and told me to get dressed. I was being released.
There were men and women in this place who had been held for weeks or months, but my sixteen hours of sleep deprivation and isolation were enough for me. This time they changed me. Something had started with Jorge Ochoa and reached a crescendo with Lucinda Sanz. It was a need to change.
At the release unit I was handed a ziplock bag containing my wallet, watch, and phone. I looked at these things and wondered if I needed them anymore.
A few moments later I stepped out through a steel door into the sun and began my own resurrection walk.
Acknowledgments
I usually use this space to thank those who helped me with the research, writing, and editing of the book. Like Mickey Haller says at the end of the Sanz case, it takes a team. Those who helped know they helped, and I thank them for their efforts and for being part of the team. But this time I want to acknowledge the readers of my work and the booksellers around the world who have stuck with me for thirty-plus years: Thank you. I have lived an amazing life as a storyteller. I cherish it, respect what it means, and know that none of it would have been possible without you.