I felt the presence of someone and turned to see a man sit down on the bench next to me. He turned and looked at me and we recognized each other at the same time. It was Howard Kurlen, a homicide detective from the Van Nuys Division. We had bumped up against each other on a few cases over the years.
“Well, well, well,” Kurlen said. “The pride of the California bar. You’re not talking to yourself, are you?”
“Maybe.”
“That could be bad for a lawyer if that got around.”
“I’m not worried. How are you doing, Detective?”
Kurlen was unwrapping a sandwich he had taken out of a brown bag.
“Busy day. Late lunch.”
He produced a peanut butter sandwich from the wrap. There was a layer of something else besides peanut butter in it but it wasn’t jelly. I couldn’t identify it. I looked at my watch. I still had a few minutes before I needed to get in line for the metal detectors at the courthouse entrance but I wasn’t sure I wanted to spend them with Kurlen and his horrible-looking sandwich. I thought about bringing up the Blake verdict, sticking it to the LAPD a little bit, but Kurlen stuck one in me first.
“How’s my man Jesus doin’?” the detective asked.
Kurlen had been lead detective on the Jesus Menendez case. He had wrapped him up so tightly that Menendez had no choice but to plead and hope for the best. He still got life.
“I don’t know,” I answered. “I don’t talk to Jesus anymore.”
“Yeah, I guess once they plead out and go upstate they’re not much use to you. No appeal work, no nothing.”
I nodded. Every cop had a jaundiced eye when it came to defense lawyers. It was as if they believed their own actions and investigations were beyond questioning or reproach. They didn’t believe in a justice system based on checks and balances.
“Just like you, I guess,” I said. “On to the next one. I hope your busy day means you’re working on getting me a new client.”
“I don’t look at it that way. But I was wondering, do you sleep well at night?”
“You know what I was wondering? What the hell is in that sandwich?”
He held what was left of the sandwich up on display.
“Peanut butter and sardines. Lots of good protein to get me through another day of chasing scumbags. Talking to them, too. You didn’t answer my question.”
“I sleep fine, Detective. You know why? Because I play an important part in the system. A needed part—just like your part. When somebody is accused of a crime, they have the opportunityto test the system. If they want to do that, they come to me. That’s all any of this is about. When you understand that, you have no trouble sleeping.”
“Good story. When you close your eyes I hope you believe it.”
“How about you, Detective? You ever put your head on the pillow and wonder whether you’ve put innocent people away?”
“Nope,” he said quickly, his mouth full of sandwich. “Never happened, never will.”
“Must be nice to be so sure.”
“A guy told me once that when you get to the end of your road, you have to look at the community woodpile and decide if you added to it while you were here or whether you just took from it. Well, I add to the woodpile, Haller. I sleep good at night. But I wonder about you and your kind. You lawyers are all takers from the woodpile.”
“Thanks for the sermon. I’ll keep it in mind next time I’m chopping wood.”
“You don’t like that, then I’ve got a joke for you. What’s the difference between a catfish and a defense attorney?”
“Hmmm, I don’t know, Detective.”
“One’s a bottom-feeding scum sucker and one’s a fish.”
He laughed uproariously. I stood up. It was time to go.
“I hope you brush your teeth after you eat something like that,” I said. “I’d hate to be your partner if you don’t.”
