She was behind her desk and wearing her black robe. This told me she probably had a hearing in open court scheduled soon and my being late was not a good thing.

“Mr. Haller, our meeting was set for ten o’clock. I believe you were given proper notice of this.”

“Yes, Your Honor, I know. I’m sorry. The elevators in this building are—”

“All lawyers take the same elevators and most seem to be on time for meetings with me.”

“Yes, Your Honor.”

“Did you bring your checkbook?”

“I think so, yes.”

“Well, we can do this one of two ways,” the judge said. “I can hold you in contempt of court, fine you and let you explain yourself to the California bar, or we can go informal and you take out your checkbook and make a donation to the Make-A-Wish Foundation. It’s one of my favorite charities. They do good things for sick children.”

This was incredible. I was being fined for being four minutes late. The arrogance of some judges was amazing. I somehow was able to swallow my outrage and speak.

“I like the idea of helping out sick children, Your Honor,” I said. “How much do I make it out for?”

“As much as you want to contribute. And I will even send it in for you.”

She pointed to a stack of paperwork on the left side of her desk. I saw two other checks, most likely stroked out by two other poor bastards who had run afoul of the judge this week. I leaned down and rummaged through the front pocket of my backpack until I found my checkbook. I wrote a check for $250 to Make-A-Wish, tore it out and handed it across the desk. I watched the judge’s eyes as she looked at the amount I was donating. She nodded approvingly and I knew I was all right.

“Thank you, Mr. Haller. They’ll be sending you a receipt for your taxes in the mail. It will go to the address on the check.”

“Like you said, they do good work.”

“Yes, they do.”

The judge put the check on top of the two others and then turned her attention back to me.

“Now, before we go over the cases, let me ask you a question,” she said. “Do you know if the police are making any headway on the investigation of Mr. Vincent’s death?”

I hesitated a moment, wondering what I should be telling the chief judge of the superior court.

“I’m not really in the loop on that, Judge,” I said. “But I was shown a photograph of a man I assume they’re looking at as a suspect.”

“Really? What kind of photo?”

“Like a surveillance shot from out on the street. A guy, and it looks like he has a gun. I think they matched it up timewise to the shooting in the garage.”

“Did you recognize the man?”

I shook my head.