“Okay, what am I looking for here?”
“Scroll down to three forty-five this afternoon.”
The posts on the blog were time-stamped. I did as instructed and came to the late afternoon post Gotler wanted me to see. The headline alone kicked me in the nuts.
Archway Grabs Real-Life Murder Mystery
Dahl/McReynolds to produce
Sources tell me that Archway Pictures has anted up six figures against a seven-figure backend to acquire rights to the foreclosure-revenge case currently twisting its way through the justice system here in LaLaLand. The accused, Lisa Trammel, was represented by Herb Dahl in the deal and he will produce alongside Archway’s Clegg McReynolds. The multitiered deal includes TV and documentary rights. The ending of the story, however, has yet to be written as Trammel still faces trial in the murder of the banker who was trying to foreclose on her house. In a press release McReynolds said Trammel’s story will be used to put a magnifying glass on the foreclosure epidemic that has swept across the country in recent years. She is expected to go to trial in two months.
“That motherfucker,” I said.
“Yeah, that’s about right,” Gotler said. “What the hell is going on? I’m out there trying to sell this thing and was very close to a deal with Lakeshore and then I read this! Are you kidding me, Haller? You stab me in the back like this?”
“Look, I don’t know exactly what is going on here but I have a contract with Lisa Trammel and-”
“Do you know this guy Dahl? I do and he’s a complete sleaze.”
“I know, I know. He tried to make a move and I shut his ass down. He got Lisa to sign something but-”
“Ah, jeez, she signed with this guy?”
“No. I mean yes, but after she signed with me. I have a contract. I have first po-”
I stopped right there. The contracts. I remembered making copies and giving them to Dahl. I then put the originals back in the file in the trunk of the Lincoln. Dahl saw the whole thing.
“Son of a bitch!”
“What is it?”
I looked at the stack of files on the corner of my desk. They had all been generated by the Lisa Trammel case. But I had not brought in the files from the trunk of the Lincoln because I had been lazy. I figured they were all old contracts and old cases and maybe I wasn’t sure how I would ultimately like working out of a bricks-and-mortar office. The contracts file was still in the trunk.
“Joel, I’ll call you right back.”
“Hey, what is-”
I closed the phone and headed to the door. The Victory Building had its own two-level garage but it was not attached. I had to leave the building and walk to the garage next door. I trotted up the ramp and on the second level headed to my car, popping the trunk with the remote as I approached. My Lincoln was the only vehicle left on the upper level. I pulled the contracts file and leaned under the light from the trunk lid to look for the agreement Lisa Trammel had signed.
It wasn’t there.
To say I was angry was an understatement. I shoved the file back into its slot and slammed the lid. I pulled my phone and called Lisa as I headed back to the ramp. The call went to message.
“Lisa, this is your attorney. I thought we agreed that when I called you, you would answer. No matter what time, no matter what you were doing. But here I am calling and you’re not answering. Call… me… back. I want to talk to you about your little friend Herb and the deal he just made. I am sure you are aware of it. But what you may not be aware of is that I am going to be suing his ass for this stunt. I’m going to put him under the earth, Lisa. So call me back! Now!”
I closed the phone and squeezed it as I headed down the ramp. I barely noticed the two men walking up the ramp until one of them called to me.
“Hey, you’re that guy, right?”
I stopped, confused by the question, my mind still firmly wrapped around Herb Dahl and Lisa Trammel.
“Excuse me?”
“The lawyer. You’re the famous lawyer from TV.”
They both moved toward me. They were young guys in bomber jackets, hands in their pockets. I didn’t want to stop to make small talk.
“Uh, no, I think you’ve got the wrong-”
“No, man, that’s you. I seen you on the TV, right?”
I gave up.
“Yeah, I have a case. It gets me on TV.”
“Right, right, right… and what’s your name again?”
“Mickey Haller.”
As soon as I said my name I saw the silent one take his hands out of his jacket pockets and square his shoulders toward me. He was wearing black fingerless gloves. It wasn’t cool enough for gloves and in that moment I realized that, since there were no other cars up on the second level, these guys hadn’t been going up there. They had been looking for me.
“What’s this all-”
The silent man swung a left fist into my midsection. I doubled over just in time to feel his right fist crush three of my left ribs. I remembered dropping my phone at that point but little else. I know I tried to run but the talker blocked my way and then turned me around, pinning my elbows at my sides.
He was wearing black gloves, too.
Twelve
They left my face alone, but that was about the only thing that didn’t feel bruised or broken when I woke up in ICU at Holy Cross. The final tally included thirty-eight stitches in my scalp, nine fractured ribs, four broken fingers, two bruised kidneys and one testicle that had been twisted 180 degrees before the surgeons straightened it. My torso was the color of a grape Popsicle and my urine the dark hue of Coca-Cola.
The last time I had stayed in a hospital I got hooked on oxycodone, an addiction that nearly cost me my child and career. This time I told them I’d gut it out without the chemical help. And this of course was a painful mistake. Two hours after taking my stand I was pleading with the nurses, the orderlies and anyone who would listen to give me the drip. It finally took care of the pain but left me floating too close to the ceiling. It took them a couple days to find the right equilibrium of pain relief and consciousness. That was when I started accepting visitors.
Two of the first were a pair of detectives from the Van Nuys Division CAPs Unit. Their names were Stilwell and Eyman. They asked me basic questions so that they could complete their paperwork. They had about as much interest in determining who had attacked me as they did in the idea of working through lunch. I was, after all, the defense counsel to an alleged murderer their colleagues down the hall had popped. In other words, they weren’t going to get their own balls in a twist over this one.
When Stilwell closed his notebook I knew the interview-and the investigation-was over. He told me they would check back if anything came up.
“You forgot something, didn’t you?” I said.
I spoke without moving my jaw because somehow moving my jaw set off the pain receptors in my rib cage.
“What’s that?” Stilwell asked.
“You never asked me to describe my attackers. You didn’t even ask what color they were.”
“We can get all of that on our next visit. The doctor told us you need your rest.”
“You want to make an appointment for the next visit?”
Neither detective answered. They wouldn’t be coming back.
“I didn’t think so,” I said. “Goodbye, Detectives. I’m glad the Crimes Against Persons Unit is on this. Makes me feel safe.”
“Look,” Stilwell said. “Likely this was a random thing. Two muggers looking for an easy mark. The chances of us-”
“They knew who I was.”
“You said they recognized you from the TV and the newspapers.”