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the only thing that was really good about my life,
     that I could be proud of. I think deep down, the reason I didn’t see her enough—that I was chasing cases instead of her—was
     because I felt unworthy of her. Her mother was a hero. She put bad people in jail. What could I tell her was good and holy
     about what I did, when I had long ago lost the thread of it myself?
    “Hey, Haller, are you there?”
    “Yeah, Mags, I’m here. What are you eating today?”
    “Just the oriental salad from downstairs. Nothing special. Where are you?”
    “Heading downtown. Listen, tell Hayley I’ll see her this Saturday. I’ll make a plan. We’ll do something special.”
    “You really mean that? I don’t want to get her hopes up.”
    I felt something lift inside me, the idea that my daughter would get her hopes up about seeing me. The one thing Maggie never
     did was run me down with Hayley. She wasn’t the kind that would do that. I always admired that.
    “Yes, I’m sure,” I said.
    “Great, I’ll tell her. Let me know when you’re coming or if I can drop her off.”
    “Okay.”
    I hesitated. I wanted to talk to her longer but there was nothing else to say. I finally said good-bye and closed the phone.
     In a few minutes we broke free of the bottleneck. I looked out the window and saw no accident. I saw nobody with a flat tire
     and no highway patrol cruiser parked on the shoulder. I saw nothing that explainedwhat had caused the traffic tie-up. It was often like that. Freeway traffic in Los Angeles was as mysterious as marriage.
     It moved and flowed, then stalled and stopped for no easily explainable reason.
    I am from a family of attorneys. My father, my half brother, a niece and a nephew. My father was a famous lawyer in a time
     when there was no cable television and no Court TV. He was the dean of criminal law in L.A. for almost three decades. From
     Mickey Cohen to the Manson girls, his clients always made the headlines. I was just an afterthought in his life, a surprise
     visitor to his second marriage to a B-level movie actress known for her exotic Latin looks but not her acting skills. The
     mix gave me my black Irish looks. My father was old when I came, so he was gone before I was old enough to really know him
     or talk to him about the calling of the law. He only left me his name. Mickey Haller, the legal legend. It still opened doors.
    But my older brother—the half brother from the first marriage—told me that my father used to talk to him about the practice
     of law and criminal defense. He used to say he would defend the devil himself just as long as he could cover the fee. The
     only big-time case and client he ever turned down was Sirhan Sirhan. He told my brother that he had liked Bobby Kennedy too
     much to defend his killer, no matter how much he believed in the ideal that the accused deserved the best and most vigorous
     defense possible.
    Growing up I read all the books about my father and his cases. I admired the skill and vigor and strategies he brought to
     the defense table. He was damn good and it made me proud to carry his name. But the law was different now. It was grayer.
     Ideals had long been downgraded to notions. Notions were optional.
    My cell phone rang and I checked the screen before answering.
    “What’s up, Val?”
    “We’re getting him out. They already took him back to the jail and we’re processing him out now.”
    “Dobbs went with the bond?”
    “You got it.”
    I could hear the delight in his voice.
    “Don’t be so giddy. You sure he’s not a runner?”
    “I’m never sure. I’m going to make him wear a bracelet. I lose him, I lose my house.”
    I realized that what I had taken as delight at the windfall that a million-dollar bond would bring to Valenzuela was actually
     nervous energy. Valenzuela would be taut as a wire until this one was over, one way or the other. Even if the court had not
     ordered it, Valenzuela was going to put an electronic tracking