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“I have the email here,” he said. “Got it at four twenty the afternoon after the callout.”

“So, doing the math,” Berg said. “The first you knew that there was no wallet was about seventeen hours after you were called to the murder scene to begin the investigation.

Correct?”

“Correct.”

“And during that time, you did not have custody of the victim’s clothing or personal belongings, correct?”

“Correct. Anything could have happened to the wallet in that time.”

“It could have been stolen or misplaced?”

“Correct.”

“Did you take the wallet, Detective Drucker?”

“No, I never even saw it.”

“Did you intentionally hold it back from the discovery package I asked you to put together for the defense?”

“I did not.”

“No further questions, Your Honor.”

I had to give Berg credit. She had skillfully pulled Drucker from the credibility scrap heap and would live to fight another day with him at trial. He was dismissed from the witness stand and I told the judge I had no other witnesses and was ready to argue. Berg also said she was ready to go.

My opening salvo was short and to the point.

“Your Honor, we have a situation here where the state has mishandled a key piece of evidence, hidden their malfeasance from the defense, and now it is the defense that is left damaged by their failure. Whether or not their actions were intentional, my right to a fair trial has been more than infringed on—it’s been trampled. I knew the victim. I knew his history and I knew his MO. He changed aliases the way some people change their shoes. The loss of this wallet, which contained the current identification of Sam Scales at the time of his death, has prevented my team from adequately being able to investigate the victim’s activities and therefore learn of potential threats and killers.

“That is my argument if you buy their explanation of the wallet being innocently misplaced or stolen by someone skulking around the halls of the coroner’s office. Personally, I don’t believe any of it. This was an intentional effort to subvert a fair trial. This was the prosecution and police getting together and—”

Berg jumped up and objected to my casting aspersions on the actions and motives of the prosecution.

“This is argument,” I said. “I can say whatever I want.”

“To a degree,” Warfield said. “I’m not going to let you stray from what is on the record. I think you have made your argument. Do you wish to add anything else?”

Berg had effectively knocked me off the rails and the judge wasn’t going to let me get back on.

“No, Your Honor,” I said. “Submitted.”

“Ms. Berg,” the judge said. “I hope you will be as succinct.”

Berg went to the lectern and began.

“Your Honor, the histrionics of defense counsel aside, there is no evidence that exists or was submitted here that indicates some great conspiracy to prevent a fair trial in the case and, most important of all, no evidence or indication of a plan to hold back or subvert the discovery process. Yes, the victim’s wallet went missing, but it was defense counsel himself who brought this to light only this morning. To come here and cry foul play and conspiracy, counsel is simply grandstanding for the media, and the state asks the court to dismiss the motion.”

I stood to respond but the judge did not allow it.

“I think I have heard enough, Mr. Haller. I know what you will say and then I know what Ms. Berg will say in return. So, let’s save the time, shall we?”

I got the message and sat down.

“The court finds the information revealed today to be very troubling,” Warfield continued. “The state concedes that there was a wallet in the victim’s pocket but it now cannot produce that wallet for examination by the defense. Whether the wallet disappeared through negligence or something more sinister, the situation still leaves the defense in a reduced position. As Mr. Haller has suggested, the wallet could have contained an alternate ID used by the victim. That in turn could lead to evidence supporting Mr. Haller’s position.”

Warfield paused there and appeared to be studying her notes for a moment before continuing.

“At this time, the court doesn’t know what the remedy is but is going to take forty-eight hours to consider it. And it will give the state those same forty-eight hours to either find the wallet or determine exactly what happened to it. I am continuing this hearing until Wednesday at one o’clock, and my suggestion to the prosecution is to not come back empty-handed. We are adjourned.”

Warfield then turned in her chair and stood up. She moved down the three steps from the bench quickly and gracefully, her robe flowing behind her as she reached the door leading to her chambers and disappeared.

“Good work,” Jennifer whispered in my ear.

“Maybe,” I whispered back. “We’ll see in a couple days. Did you get that subpoena printed?”

“Got it.”

“Let me go see if I can get her while she’s feeling it for the defense.”

While Jennifer opened her briefcase to get the document, Berg stopped by the defense table on her exit.

“You really think I had something to do with that? That I even knew about it?”

I looked up at her for a moment, then answered.

“I don’t know, Dana. All I do know is that from day one you’ve been trying to tilt the board so all the pieces roll to your side. So, give me a reason not to believe it. Go find the wallet.”

She frowned and walked away without a response.

“Here,” Jennifer said.

I took the subpoena and got up.

“I’m going to go,” she said. “Let me know if there’s a problem.”

“Will do. Let’s talk tomorrow morning. And thanks for jumping on this today.”

“No problem. You’ll get it to Cisco?”

“Yeah, but I think I’m going to go with him, see if I can rattle the cage a little bit.”

“Good luck with that. The FBI doesn’t usually rattle.”

I walked over to Warfield’s clerk and asked him to call the judge before she settled in to chambers and see if I could come back to get a subpoena signed. He reluctantly made the call and I could see the slight surprise on his face when the judge apparently told him to send me in.

The clerk opened a half door in his corral and buzzed me through the door to chambers. It led me into a hallway that was an extension of the clerk’s domain, with file cabinets on one side and a large printer and worktable on the other. I passed through to another hallway, this one lined with doors to individual judge’s chambers.

Warfield’s was one down to the left and her door was open. She was behind her desk and had hung her black robe on a coatrack.

“You have a subpoena for me?” she said.

“Yes, Judge,” I said. “A subpoena for records.”

I handed the document Jennifer had prepared across the desk. I remained standing while the judge studied it.

“This is federal,” she said.

“It’s for the FBI but it’s a state subpoena,” I explained.

“I can see that, but you know you’re spinning your wheels. The FBI won’t respond to a state subpoena. You have to go through the U.S. Attorney’s Office, Mr. Haller.”

“Some would say that going through the U.S. A’s Office would be spinning wheels, Judge.”

She kept her eyes on the subpoena and read out loud: “‘All documents related to interactions with Samuel Scales or aliases …’ ”

Now she dropped the paper on her desk, leaned back, and looked up at me.

“You know where this will go, right?” she said. “The circular file.”

“It may,” I said.

“You’re just fishing? Trying to get a reaction?”

“I’m working on a hunch. It would have helped if I had had the wallet and a name to work with. Do you have a problem with my fishing, Judge?”

I was speaking to the former defense attorney in her. I knew she had been in the same position: needing a break and backing a long shot to get it.

“I don’t have anything against what you’re doing,” Warfield said. “But it’s a little late in the game for it. You have trial in a month.”

“I’ll be ready, Judge,” I said.

She leaned forward, grabbed a pen from a fancy silver holder on the desk, and signed the subpoena. She handed it back to me.

“Thank you, Judge,” I said.

I walked to the door and she caught me before I could slip through.

“I cleared two weeks for jury selection and trial,” she said to my back.

I turned around to look at her.

“If you try to fuck me by running it up to game time and then asking for a delay, my answer’s going to be no.”

I nodded that I understood.

“Thank you, Your Honor,” I said.

I walked through the door with my long-shot subpoena.

Back in the courtroom the clerk told me I’d had a visitor who had been waiting in the gallery but the deputy had shooed him out because the courtroom was dark for the rest of the day.

“A big guy?” I asked. “Black T-shirt, boots?”

“No,” the clerk said. “A Black guy. Had on a suit.”

That made me curious. I gathered the materials I had left at my place at the defense table and then left the courtroom. Out in the hallway I found my visitor waiting on a bench outside the courtroom door. I almost didn’t recognize him in the suit and tie.

“Bishop?”

“Counselor.”

“Bishop, what are you doing here? You got out?”

“I’m out, man, and ready to go to work.”

It then struck me. I had offered him a job when he got out of jail. Bishop read my hesitation.

“It’s okay, man, if you don’t have it. I know you got your trial and shit to worry about.”

“No, it’s okay. I just … it’s a surprise, that’s all.”

“Well, you need a driver?”

“I do, actually. I mean, not every day but I need a guy on call, yeah. When do you want to start?”

Bishop spread his arms as if to display himself.

“I got my funeral suit on,” he said. “I’m ready to go.”

“What about a driver’s license?” I asked.

“Got that, too. Went to the DMV as soon as I got out.”

“When was that?”

“Wednesday.”

“Okay, let me see it. I’ll have to shoot a photo of it and add you to the insurance.”

“No problem.”

He pulled a thin wallet out of a pants pocket and gave me a brand-new license. It looked legit to me as far as I could tell. I saw for the first time that his name was Bambadjan Bishop. I pulled my phone and took the photo.

“Where’s that name come from?” I asked.

“My mother was from Ivory Coast,” he said. “Her father’s name.”

“So, I have to go out to Westwood to drop a subpoena. You want to start right now?”

“I’m here. Ready to go.”

My Lincoln was parked in the black hole parking structure. We walked over and I gave Bishop the keys and took the back seat.

We worked our way up to the ground-level exit and I paid careful attention to his driving skills as I gave him the rundown on how the job worked. He was essentially on call 24/7 but most of the time I would need him during weekdays only. He needed to have a phone I could text him on. No burners. No alcohol. No weapons. He didn’t have to wear a tie but I liked the suit. He could shed the jacket whenever he was in the car. On the days I needed him he would have to get to my house, where the car was kept, and go from there. No overnight take-homes of the car.

“I got a phone,” he said when I was finished. “It ain’t a burner.”

“Good,” I said. “I need the number. Any questions?”

“Yeah, what’m I getting paid?”

“The four hundred I was paying you for protection is now suspended because you’re out and I’m out. I’ll pay you eight hundred a week to drive me. There will be a lot of downtime and days off.”

“I was thinking a thousand.”

“I was thinking eight. Let’s see how you do, then we can talk about a thousand. As soon as I get through this trial and am back to making money, we’ll talk. Do we have a deal?”

“Yeah. Deal.”

“Good.”

“Where we going in Westwood?”

“The federal building at Wilshire and the 405.”

“With all the flagpoles out front.”

“That’s it.”

We got out of the underground parking and Bishop worked his way to the 10 freeway and headed west without my having to issue instructions. That was a good sign. I pulled my phone and texted Cisco, telling him to meet me in the lobby of the federal building in Westwood.

What’s up

Subpoena drop on the feds.

On my way.

I put the phone away and looked at Bishop’s eyes in the rearview mirror.

“What do you want me to call you?” I said. “I’m so used to calling you Bishop but that was in jail and maybe—”

“Bishop is good.”

“So when I was in there, I wanted to mind my own business. I didn’t ask anybody anything. But now I have to ask you, what were you in Twin Towers for and how’d you get out?”

“I was doing a bullet on a probation violation. Normally they would have put me up at Pitchess but a guy from LAPD gang intel was working me and he didn’t like driving all the way up there all the time. So I got lucky. Got a solo cell at T.T. instead of a dayroom cot at Pitchess.”

“So, those times you said you had court, you were actually off snitching to gang intel?”

He glanced at me in the mirror, picking up the tone in my voice.

“I worked him,” he said. “He didn’t work me.”

“So, you’re not going to have to testify in a case?” I pressed. “I don’t want to make myself a target here, Bishop.”

“There is no case, Counselor. I worked it until my year was up and then I was out. If’n he comes around now, I can tell him to fuck off.”

His story tracked right. A bullet was a year and convicts serving a year or less usually weren’t sent to state prison. They served their short sentences in one of the county’s stockades, and the Peter J. Pitchess Honor Rancho was the largest of them all.

“You’re a Crip, right?” I asked.

“I was an associate,” Bishop said.

“Which set?”

“Southside.”

During my time with the Public Defender’s Office I had represented defendants from probably every known clique and set of the Bloods and Crips, but that was long ago and no names of former clients came to mind.

“Before your time, but Southside guys supposedly took out Tupac in Vegas,” I said.

“That’s the word,” Bishop said. “But that was ancient history.

None of those OGs were around when I was.”

“What were you on probation for?”

“Slinging.”

“So, why do you want to work for me when you could go back to your homies and sling dope? More money in that.”

“You know why, man. I got a girl and a kid now. I’m gonna get married and be done with all that.”

“You sure, Bambadjan?”

“You check me, man. You’ll see. I never was a user and I’m outta that life. I’m gonna find a place up here to rent and never go back down there.”

Bishop transitioned onto the northbound 405 to get off on Wilshire Boulevard. The federal building rose seventeen floors next to the freeway, a building that looked like a giant gray tombstone.

Soon we were in the vast parking lot that surrounded it. I told Bishop to stay in the lot and that I would text him when I was coming out.

“This probably won’t take too long,” I said.

“Paying your taxes?” he asked.

I didn’t answer. I wasn’t going to start telling him my business just yet.

In the lobby I saw Cisco waiting on the other side of the metal detector. He had brought Lorna with him. This was fine because she was a state-registered process server as well. California statutes required that all subpoenas be delivered by process servers or licensed private detectives. It was a safety rule designed to circumvent the possibility of lawyers or their clients serving subpoenas and other legal documents on the people they were engaged in disputes with.

Normally I would be nowhere near this subpoena delivery but I wanted to be there to make a statement. A statement I hoped would engender a response from the bureau.

I joined Cisco and Lorna after getting through the metal detector. We took an elevator up to the fourteenth floor, where the largest FBI field office west of Chicago was located. We somehow ended up alone on the elevator.

“You know they aren’t going to accept this, right?” Cisco said.

“I know,” I said. “I just want to make some waves, bang a few drums, and see what happens.”

“The FBI?” Lorna said. “Don’t count on them reacting at all.”

“Just have your phone ready,” I said.

Keeping with the rules, I handed Cisco the subpoena that Judge Warfield had signed. The elevator doors opened on fourteen and we saw a reception counter protected with thick glass like a bank teller’s cage in a high-crime zone. A woman sat on a stool behind a slide-through drawer. She switched on a two-way speaker attached to the glass.

“Can I help you?” she asked.

Cisco leaned down to the speaker and read the name on the subpoena.

“I’d like to see the SAC, John Trembley,” he said.

“Do you have identification?” the receptionist asked. “For all three of you?”

I pulled my wallet and dug out my driver’s license and a business card—one of the old ones printed before the California bar made me remove “Reasonable Doubt for a Reasonable Fee” from all of my advertising and marketing. Cisco and Lorna produced their IDs as well and we put all three in the drawer. The receptionist took her time studying them before responding.

“The special agent in charge doesn’t see anyone without an appointment,” the receptionist said. “I can give you an email you can use to reach out and set something up.”

Cisco held up the document with Trembley’s name written on it.

“I have a subpoena here signed by a judge requesting documents from Agent Trembley,” he said. “He needs to see it right away and I have to confirm service or we could both end up in contempt.”

“All subpoena service goes through the U.S. Attorney’s Office and they are located downtown,” the receptionist said. “You should know that.”

“I do know that,” Cisco said. “This is different. This subpoena has a clock on it.”

I leaned toward the speaker.

“Can you call Agent Trembley, please?” I asked. “He’ll want to know about this.”

The receptionist seemed annoyed by the request.

“Put it in the drawer,” she said.

The steel drawer slid out with our IDs, which we all collected. My business card was in the bottom. I took it and gave it to Cisco, who slid it under the paper clip attached to the multipage subpoena.

Cisco placed the subpoena in the drawer and it was immediately pulled in. The receptionist turned off the speaker while she pulled the subpoena out and looked at it. She then picked up a phone and made a call. The glass suppressed her side of a short conversation.

A few moments later a man in a suit stepped through a door behind the receptionist, took the subpoena, and only glanced at it as he opened a door and stepped into the waiting area.

“Agent Trembley?” I asked.

“No,” he said. “Agent Eason. We don’t accept subpoenas here.” I nodded to the one in his hand.

“You just did,” I said.

“No, this has to be taken to the U.S. Attorney’s Office,” he said.

Lorna raised her cell phone and took a photo of Eason and the subpoena.

“Hey!” the agent cried. “No photos. Delete that now!”

“You’re served,” Cisco said.

Mission accomplished, I reached back and hit the elevator button. The doors opened right away. I looked back at Eason.

“My card’s there,” I said. “Tell Trembley he can call anytime.”

We left Eason standing there, holding the subpoena. As the elevator doors closed I saw him glance through the glass at the receptionist. He looked both angry and embarrassed.

Back down in the lobby I gave Lorna and Cisco the news about Bishop.

“I just hired a driver,” I said.

We walked through the glass doors to the flag plaza.

“Who?” Lorna asked. “I thought hiring someone was my job.”

“Bambadjan Bishop,” I said.

“What?” Lorna said. “Who?”

“Is that the guy who had your back in Twin Towers?” Cisco asked.

“Exactly,” I said. “He’s out and I’m trying him out as a driver. I sort of promised him the job when I was in there. The protection money to his girlfriend now stops and I’m paying him eight bills a week to drive.”

“And you trust him?” Lorna asked.

“Not exactly,” I said. “I need to make sure he’s legit. After the eavesdropping scam and now the wallet gone missing, I’m not going to be surprised by anything the other side pulls.”

“You think he’s wired up for them?” Lorna asked.

“No indication of that but I want to be sure,” I said. “That’s where you come in, Big Man.”

“Where is he?”

“Out in the lot somewhere. I’ll text him to come pick me up.”

“So you want me to bend him over the car or what?”

“I want you to search him for a wire but you don’t need to prone him out. I think he’ll cooperate. If he doesn’t, then we know.”

When we got to the parking lot, I texted the number Bishop had given me and we waited. When the Lincoln pulled up, Lorna and I got into the back and Cisco squeezed into the front for the meet and greet.

“Bishop, this is Lorna and Cisco,” I said. “Lorna manages the practice and she’ll get with you about any paperwork you need to set up the job. And Cisco’s my investigator and he needs to check you.”

“Check me for what?” Bishop said.

“A wire,” Cisco said. “Just a little pat-down.”

“That’s bullshit,” Bishop said. “I ain’t wearin’ no wire.”

“I don’t think you’re wearing one either,” I said. “But a lot of confidential conversations take place in this car. I need to be able to guarantee my clients that they are in fact confidential.”

“Whatever,” Bishop said. “I got nothing to hide.”

Cisco turned in his seat and reached his big hands toward Bishop’s chest. It took him less than a minute to make a determination.

“He’s clean,” Cisco said.

“Good,” I said. “Welcome to the team, Bishop.”

They came that night to my home. A knock so sharp that Kendall nearly shrieked. She was bingeing the last season of The Sopranos and was already on edge. I was sitting next to her on the couch, going through the files from the old Sam Scales cases I had handled.

I opened the door and a man and woman stood there. I knew they were feds before they said word one or showed their badges. They introduced themselves as agents Rick Aiello and Dawn Ruth. Over my shoulder they could see Kendall sitting on the couch and asked if there was a place we could speak privately. I stepped out through the front door and pointed to the table and chairs at the far end of the deck.

“Out here is good,” I said.

We moved toward the table, and the motion engaged the deck lights—two sconces on the wall and an overhead in the roof’s eave. That told me that the motion-activated camera attachment had engaged as well.

We stopped at the high-top table but no one sat down. I broke the ice.

“I suppose this is about the subpoena we dropped off for your boss today,” I asked.

“Yes, sir, it is,” said Aiello.

“We need to know why you believe that the bureau would have any information on the activities of Sam Scales,” Ruth said.

I smiled and spread my hands.

“Does it matter now?” I asked. “Aren’t the two of you confirming it by showing up here at my house at nine o’clock at night? I thought the subpoena might cause some commotion and consternation, but to be honest, I wasn’t expecting you guys till at least tomorrow, maybe Wednesday.”

“We’re glad you think it’s funny, Mr. Haller,” Aiello said. “We don’t.”

“No, what’s not funny is me being charged with the murder of a guy who was being watched by the FBI,” I said. “Maybe you can tell me—how did that happen?”

I was bluffing, hoping to get a confirmation or some indication I was on the right track with Sam Scales. But the agents were too smart for that.

“Good try,” Ruth said.

From the inside pocket of his standard-issue FBI blue blazer, Aiello pulled out a folded document and handed it to me.

“There’s your stupid little subpoena,” he said. “Wipe your ass with it.”

“What about my Freedom of Information Act petition?” I asked. “I guess I can wipe my ass with that too, huh?”

“We don’t expect to hear from you again,” Ruth said.

She nodded to Aiello and they turned back toward the steps. I watched them go and then, without thinking, I made a play for the camera.

“Or what?” I called after them. “You know it’s all going to come out at trial. I’m not going down so you can keep your BioGreen case secret.”

Ruth pirouetted perfectly and came back toward me. But Aiello passed her on the outside and got to me first.

“What did you say?” he asked.

“I think you heard me pretty good,” I said.

He brought both hands up and shoved me backward into the deck railing, then moved in and held me leaning back over it, the street twenty-five feet below.

“Haller, you’ve been told,” he said. “Any attempt by you to compromise a federal investigation that has zero to do with your … situation … is going to be met with a very harsh response.”

Ruth made an effort to pull her partner off me but she didn’t have the weight or muscle.

“What’s going on at that plant?” I asked. “What’s Opparizio got going? I exposed that guy for what he was nine years ago. You’re kind of late to the game.”

Aiello put his own weight into leaning me farther over. It was a wooden railing and I felt it hard against my backbone. I was afraid the rail might give way and we would both fall to the street.

“Rick!” Ruth yelled. “Let him go. Now!”

Aiello finally pulled me by the collar back onto steady ground and pointed at my face.

“You don’t know what you’re dealing with,” he said.

“Just barking up the wrong tree, huh?” I said. “Is that what—”

“You’re barking up the wrong planet, Haller,” Aiello said. “Stay away from it. Or you’ll bear witness to the power and might of the federal government.”

“Is that a threat?” I asked.

“It is what it is,” Aiello said.

Ruth yanked her partner away by the arm.

“Have a good evening,” she said.

She pulled him toward the steps. They passed Kendall, who now stood in the open doorway to the house, drawn from the television by the raised voices. I watched them go, this time deciding not to bother baiting them further. They descended the stairs to the street. I heard Ruth admonish Aiello in a tense whisper.

“What the hell was that?” she said. “Get in the car.”

I heard the doors of their car open and close. Then the engine turned over and the tires shot gravel as they took off and drove down the hill.

“Who were they?” Kendall asked.

“FBI,” I said.

“What? What did they want?”

“To scare me. Let’s go in.”

The first thing I did when I got back inside was go to my Ring camera app and check whether the confrontation on the front deck could be seen and heard clearly. It was all there, but the sound was sketchy in places. I had no doubt that it could be teased out by a sound expert if I ever needed it. I sent the video to Cisco and Jennifer so they would have copies. I also wrote a short note to accompany the file transfer: Looks like we touched a nerve.

I returned to my spot on the couch next to Kendall but found it hard to get back into the grind of going through the case files.

“What exactly did they want?” Kendall asked.

“I rattled their cage today,” I said. “They wanted to rattle mine.”

“Did they?”

“Nope.”

“Good. You want to keep working?”

“Nah, I think I’m done for the night.”

“Then, let’s go to bed.”

“Good idea.”

But the move to the bedroom was interrupted by Cisco, who called after viewing the video I had sent. I told Kendall I’d be in in a few minutes.

“That looked a little testy,” Cisco said.

“They definitely aren’t happy with the subpoena we dropped on them,” I said. “Whatever they’ve got going at BioGreen, they don’t want us in the picture.”

“But we stay with it, right?”

“Right. You hear anything from the Indians after this morning?”

“I got a report on the sidepiece. Still no sign of Opparizio.”

“We have to find him. What about that other thing you were doing?”

“Yeah, I was going to fill you in tomorrow. There was nothing there tonight. No flags. After he left you at the house, he walked down the hill to Sunset, ordered food right there at Zankou Chicken, and waited for a ride. Then I see a car pull up and it’s his girlfriend.”

“How’d you know it was his girlfriend?”

“Because I’ve been dropping off cash to her every week since you got popped.”

“Right. Forgot.”

“She had the kid in the car too. They picked him up with dinner and went home to Inglewood. And that was it.”

“He didn’t make any calls?”

“A couple but I had eyes on him. They were social calls. He was smiling, animated—not like he was reporting in as a CI.”

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