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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 explained what 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 bracelet on Roulet’s ankle. He was taking no chances with this guy.
    “Where’s Dobbs?”
    “Back at my office, waiting. I’ll bring Roulet over as soon as he’s out. Shouldn’t be too much longer.”
    “Is Maisy over there?”
    “Yeah, she’s there.”
    “Okay, I’m going to call over.”
    I ended the call and hit the speed-dial combo for Liberty Bail Bonds. Valenzuela’s receptionist and assistant answered.
    “Maisy, it’s Mick. Can you put Mr. Dobbs on the line?”
    “Sure thing, Mick.”
    A few seconds later Dobbs got on the line. He seemed put out by something. Just in the way he said, “This is Cecil Dobbs.”
    “This is Mickey Haller. How is it going over there?”
    “Well, if you consider I am letting my duties to other clients slide while I sit here and read year-old magazines, not good.”
    “You don’t carry a cell phone to do business?”
    “I do. But that’s not the point. My clients aren’t cell phone