Excerpt1

Chapter One

It was 1972. Gas guzzling monsters and the summer inversion layer covered the L.A. Basin with a dust-colored
layer of smog. It was the type of day that caused normal people to be on edge and edgy people to be
downright mean. I was late for an appointment with the Judge, one of the edgy people, and I needed a favor.

The tires squealed when I swung into the parking lot at South Gate Municipal Court and edged a white
Oldsmobile out of the only spot left. The guy in the Olds, raising his middle finger, flashed his IQ as I got out
and dashed into the building.

“Sorry, Bob, the traffic on Firestone Boulevard,” I said, peeking around the door to the Judge’s chambers.

“Sit down,” he said. “You’re late.”

I sat in an overstuffed chair, took a deep breath, and glanced around. On the paneled walls were numerous
awards, diplomas, and photographs of the judge beaming his smile and shaking hands with California’s political
heavyweights. The image in the photos wasn’t the image that peered at me across the desk.

“Listen, O’Brien,” he said. “In these chambers and my courtroom you address me as Judge Johnson.”

The furniture in his chambers was stately and ornate, but the only thing in the room larger than Johnson’s
massive desk was his ego.

“You’re going to play the role with me? For chrissakes, Bob, we go back a long way.”

I met Bob Johnson years before when we were both cops on the Los Angeles police force. He had joined right
after the Korean War where he served as a fighter pilot. I came on twelve years later after I received my degree
in police science. Johnson was a sergeant, I was a rookie—he was the boss—and I was assigned to ride patrol
with him.

“Okay, I’ll make an exception with you, but only when we’re alone. Got that?”

“Yeah.”

“Now get to the point. What do you want.”

“I’ve got this client―”

“Wait just a minute. Is your client due to appear in my court?”
“Yeah, but―”

He arose from his chair, stood, his frame hunched over the desk. “Don’t you yeah-but me. You know I can’t
discuss a case ex parte. If you want a conference, call the DA’s office and schedule an appointment.”

Johnson was a tall barrel-bodied man, about six-one, same as me, but he was a lot heavier. I weighed in at one-
ninety, and Johnson had to be at least two-twenty or maybe even two-thirty. His hair was blow-dried and styled
with swept-back sideburns running down his temples to his upper cheeks, the color changing along the way
from the polished-silver on top to a dark shade matching his perennial five-o'clock shadow.

“Listen, Bob, this is a special case.”

“Yeah, what’s so special about it?”

“It’s special because I haven’t had a paying client in a while, and this guy’s going to give me a thousand dollars
if I get him off.”

He paused. “Felony or a misdemeanor?”

Johnson gave me an opening. I took the opening and ran with it like Crazy Legs Hirsch galloping toward the
goal line. “A misdemeanor. My client, Glenn Christensen, sells flour, has a mill in Arizona, Sugartown Milling
Company, with a warehouse here in South Gate.”

“Yeah, so what.”

“It seems he sold some bags that were underweight. The county Weights and Measures tagged his inventory
and charged him with fraud.”

“Why doesn’t he just plead it out, and pay the five hundred dollar fine? It’s no big deal.”

“His customer owes money for past orders and won’t pay. Christensen’s civil suit goes out the window if he’s
convicted of fraud.”

“Are you handling the civil action?”

“No, Christensen hired a collection firm, but he told me he offered to settle with the customer for the amount he
actually shipped.”

“Your client’s a sport.”

“Bob, I could use the money.”

Johnson picked up a crystal paperweight and flipped it back and forth. “Why should I worry about you?”

The ungrateful son of a bitch. My mind raced back to the days when we were cops, when we patrolled the
streets together in a black-and-white.

I remembered the favors I had done for him. Small things at first. He was in his third year of law school, and I’d
cover it with the watch commander when he took a little time off to study his law books. I went along with the
program, but it got worse. Occasionally he would vanish for days at a time. I finally drew the line when he asked
me to lie to his wife so that he could spend an extra day or two with one of his latest girlfriends. Lying to the
brass hats was one thing, but no way was I going to get in the middle of his domestic troubles.

“I’ve never asked before, but now I need a favor.”

Johnson remained silent.

I stared into his dark eyes. “Are you listening to me, Sergeant Johnson,” I said.

“Have your client in my courtroom at nine-thirty tomorrow morning. I’ll work it out, but don’t be late again,
understand? You and your client, the short-weight artist, better be on time.”

Relief rose within me like heat from a warm stove. “Yeah. We’ll be here on time.”

“Wear a coat and tie in my courtroom tomorrow. Understand?”

It was hot, about eight hundred degrees outside. I reached up and fingered my collar. I didn’t wear a tie. I
figured with the heat and smog, I wouldn’t need to. Besides, this meeting was supposed to be informal.

“I’ll dress appropriate for the occasion.”

“Okay,” he said. “Don’t thank me for the favor, but remember you owe me one. Now clear out.”

I wasn’t going to thank him. He never thanked me. “You don’t want to gab about old times?” I said, giving him
the needle.

“Later—I’ve got lunch with Barry Welch.”

“The Senator? My God. Wasn’t his secretary murdered Saturday night?”

Senator Welch was the majority leader of the state senate, a kingpin in the Democratic Party. He was a strong
contender, a front runner, perhaps the favorite in the race for California’s top prize in 1974. The murder was
headline news, hogging the front page, even elbowing the merciless gossip about Howard Cosell and Linda
Lovelace to page two for a few minutes. Rona Barrett, the new celebrity gossip monger, broke the Cosell story,
but I didn’t believe a word of it.

“Yeah, her name was Gloria. She was Barry’s administrative assistant, a real shame.” Johnson paused and
looked down for a moment. “She was a good looking lady.”

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