The Reversal by Michael Connelly Page A

the night as the list of detainees required. Consequently, he was a jurist who liked to keep things moving. You had to act fast in one hundred or risk being run over and left behind. In here, justice was an assembly line with a conveyor belt that never stopped turning. Firestone wanted to get home. The lawyers wanted to get home. Everybody wanted to get home.
    I entered the courtroom with Maggie and immediately saw the cameras being set up in a six-foot corral to the left side, across the courtroom from the glass pen that housed defendants brought in six at a time. Without the glare of spotlights this time, I saw my friend Sticks setting the legs of the tool that provided his nickname, his tripod. He saw me and gave me a nod and I returned it.
    Maggie tapped me on the arm and pointed toward a man seated at the prosecution table with three other lawyers.
    “That’s Rivas on the end.”
    “Okay. You go talk to him while I check in with the clerk.”
    “You don’t have to check in, Haller. You’re a prosecutor, remember?”
    “Oh, cool. I forgot.”
    We headed over to the prosecution table and Maggie introduced me to Rivas. The prosecutor was a baby lawyer, probably no more than a few years out of a top-ranked law school. My guess was that he was biding his time, playing office politics and waiting to make a move up the ladder and out of the hellhole of arraignment court. It didn’t help that I had come from across the aisle to grab the golden ring of the office’s current caseload. By his body language I registered his wariness. I was at the wrong table. I was the fox in the henhouse. And I knew that before the hearing was over, I was going to confirm his suspicions.
    After the perfunctory handshake, I looked around for Clive Royce and found him seated against the railing, conferring with a young woman who was probably his associate. They were leaning toward each other, looking into an open folder with a thick sheaf of documents in it. I approached with my hand out.
    “Clive ‘The Barrister’ Royce, how’s it hanging, old chap?”
    He looked up and a smile immediately creased his well-tanned face. Like a perfect gentleman, he stood up before accepting my hand.
    “Mickey, how are you? I’m sorry it looks like we’re going to be opposing counsel on this one.”
    I knew he was sorry but not too sorry. Royce had built his career on picking winners. He would not risk going pro bono and stepping into a heavy media case if he didn’t think it would amount to free advertising and another victory. He was in it to win it and behind the smile was a set of sharp teeth.
    “Me, too. And I am sure you will make me regret the day I crossed the aisle.”
    “Well, I guess we’re both fulfilling our public duty, yes? You helping out the district attorney and me taking on Jessup on the cuff.”
    Royce still carried an English accent even though he had lived more than half his fifty years in the United States. It gave him an aura of culture and distinction that belied his practice of defending people accused of heinous crimes. He wore a three-piece suit with a barely discernible chalk line in the gabardine. His bald pate was well tanned and smooth, his beard dyed black and groomed to the very last hair.
    “That’s one way of looking at it,” I said.
    “Oh, where are my manners? Mickey, this is my associate Denise Graydon. She’ll be assisting me in the defense of Mr. Jessup.”
    Graydon stood up and shook my hand firmly.
    “Nice to meet you,” I said.
    I looked around to see if Maggie was standing nearby and could be introduced but she was huddled with Rivas at the prosecution table.
    “Well,” I said to Royce. “Did you get your client on the docket?”
    “I did indeed. He’ll be first in the group after this one. I’ve already gone back and visited and we’ll be ready to make a motion for bail. I was wondering, though, since we have a few minutes, could we step out into the corridor for a word?”
    “Sure, Clive.