Read Online The Lincoln Lawyer: A Novel by Michael Connelly - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Michael Connelly
Tags: LEGAL, Literature & Fiction, Contemporary, Thrillers, Mystery; Thriller & Suspense, Fiction / Thrillers / General, Contemporary Fiction
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through the whole sign-in process again. So I stayed put and watched the faces
of the people who came to visit those being held inside. Most were black and brown. Most had the look of routine on their
faces. They all probably knew the ropes here much better than I.
After twenty minutes a large woman in a deputy’s uniform came into the waiting area and collected me. I knew that she had
not gotten into the sheriff’s department with her current dimensions. She was at least a hundred pounds overweight and seemed
to struggle just to carry it while walking. But I also knew that once somebody was in, it was hard to get them out. About
the best thisone could do if there was a jail break was lean up against a door to keep it closed.
“Sorry it took so long,” she told me as we waited between the double steel doors of a mantrap in the women’s tower. “I had
to go find her, make sure we still had her.”
She signaled that everything was all right to a camera above the next door and its lock clacked open. She pushed through.
“She was up in medical getting fixed up,” she said.
“Fixed up?”
I wasn’t aware of the jail having a drug-treatment program that included “fixing up” addicts.
“Yeah, she got hurt,” the deputy said. “Got a little banged up in a scuffle. She can tell you.”
I let the questions go at that. In a way, I was relieved that the medical delay was not due—not directly, at least—to drug
ingestion or addiction.
The deputy led me to the attorney room, which I had been in many times before with many different clients. The vast majority
of my clients were men and I didn’t discriminate, but the truth was I hated representing women who were incarcerated. From
prostitutes to murderers—and I had defended them all—there was something pitiful about a woman in jail. I had found that almost
all of the time, their crimes could be traced back to men. Men who took advantage of them, abused them, deserted them, hurt
them. This is not to say they were not responsible for their actions or that some of them did not deserve the punishments
they received. There were predators among the female ranks that easily rivaled those among the males. But, even still, the
women I saw in jail seemed so different from the men in the other tower. The men still lived by wiles and strength. The women
had nothing left by the time they locked the door on them.
The visiting area was a row of booths in which an attorney could sit on one side and confer with a client who sat on the other
side, separated by an eighteen-inch sheet of clear Plexiglas. A deputy sat in a glassed-in booth at the end of the room and
observedbut supposedly didn’t listen. If paperwork needed to be passed to the client, it was held up for the booth deputy to see and
approve.
I was led to a booth and my escort left me. I then waited another ten minutes before the same deputy appeared on the other
side of the Plexiglas with Gloria Dayton. Immediately, I saw that my client had a swelling around her left eye and a single
butterfly stitch over a small laceration just below her widow’s peak. Gloria Dayton had jet-black hair and olive skin. She
had once been beautiful. The first time I represented her, seven or eight years before, she was beautiful. The kind of beauty
that leaves you stunned at the fact she was selling it, that she had decided that selling herself to strangers was her best
or only option. Now she just looked hard to me. The lines of her face were taut. She had visited surgeons who were not the
best, and anyway, there was nothing they could do about eyes that had seen too much.
“Mickey Mantle,” she said. “You’re going to bat for me again?”
She said it in her little girl’s voice that I suppose her regular clients enjoyed and responded to. It just sounded strange
to me, coming from that tightly drawn mouth and face with eyes that were as hard and had as much life in them as
of the people who came to visit those being held inside. Most were black and brown. Most had the look of routine on their
faces. They all probably knew the ropes here much better than I.
After twenty minutes a large woman in a deputy’s uniform came into the waiting area and collected me. I knew that she had
not gotten into the sheriff’s department with her current dimensions. She was at least a hundred pounds overweight and seemed
to struggle just to carry it while walking. But I also knew that once somebody was in, it was hard to get them out. About
the best thisone could do if there was a jail break was lean up against a door to keep it closed.
“Sorry it took so long,” she told me as we waited between the double steel doors of a mantrap in the women’s tower. “I had
to go find her, make sure we still had her.”
She signaled that everything was all right to a camera above the next door and its lock clacked open. She pushed through.
“She was up in medical getting fixed up,” she said.
“Fixed up?”
I wasn’t aware of the jail having a drug-treatment program that included “fixing up” addicts.
“Yeah, she got hurt,” the deputy said. “Got a little banged up in a scuffle. She can tell you.”
I let the questions go at that. In a way, I was relieved that the medical delay was not due—not directly, at least—to drug
ingestion or addiction.
The deputy led me to the attorney room, which I had been in many times before with many different clients. The vast majority
of my clients were men and I didn’t discriminate, but the truth was I hated representing women who were incarcerated. From
prostitutes to murderers—and I had defended them all—there was something pitiful about a woman in jail. I had found that almost
all of the time, their crimes could be traced back to men. Men who took advantage of them, abused them, deserted them, hurt
them. This is not to say they were not responsible for their actions or that some of them did not deserve the punishments
they received. There were predators among the female ranks that easily rivaled those among the males. But, even still, the
women I saw in jail seemed so different from the men in the other tower. The men still lived by wiles and strength. The women
had nothing left by the time they locked the door on them.
The visiting area was a row of booths in which an attorney could sit on one side and confer with a client who sat on the other
side, separated by an eighteen-inch sheet of clear Plexiglas. A deputy sat in a glassed-in booth at the end of the room and
observedbut supposedly didn’t listen. If paperwork needed to be passed to the client, it was held up for the booth deputy to see and
approve.
I was led to a booth and my escort left me. I then waited another ten minutes before the same deputy appeared on the other
side of the Plexiglas with Gloria Dayton. Immediately, I saw that my client had a swelling around her left eye and a single
butterfly stitch over a small laceration just below her widow’s peak. Gloria Dayton had jet-black hair and olive skin. She
had once been beautiful. The first time I represented her, seven or eight years before, she was beautiful. The kind of beauty
that leaves you stunned at the fact she was selling it, that she had decided that selling herself to strangers was her best
or only option. Now she just looked hard to me. The lines of her face were taut. She had visited surgeons who were not the
best, and anyway, there was nothing they could do about eyes that had seen too much.
“Mickey Mantle,” she said. “You’re going to bat for me again?”
She said it in her little girl’s voice that I suppose her regular clients enjoyed and responded to. It just sounded strange
to me, coming from that tightly drawn mouth and face with eyes that were as hard and had as much life in them as
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