“No. I’m going to write this thing up right now and send it to the court in an e-mail.”

“That’s cool!”

“The beauty of the Internet.”

“Thanks, Mr. Haller.”

“You’re welcome, Patrick. Can I have my picture back now?”

He handed it over the seat and I took a look at it. I had a marble under my lip, and my nose was pointing in the wrong direction. There was also a bloody friction abrasion on my forehead. The eyes were the toughest part to study. Dazed and lost, staring unsteadily at the camera. This was me at my lowest point.

I put the photo back in my pocket for safekeeping.

We drove in silence for the next fifteen minutes while I finished the motion, went online and sent it. It was definitely a shot across the prosecution’s bow and it felt good. The Lincoln lawyer was back on the beat. The Lone Ranger was riding again.

I made sure I looked up from the computer when we hit the tunnel that marks the end of the freeway and dumps out onto the Pacific Coast Highway. I cracked the window open. I always loved the feeling I got when I’d swing out of the tunnel and see and smell the ocean.

We followed the PCH as it took us north to Malibu. It was hard for me to go back to the computer when I had the blue Pacific right outside my office window. I finally gave up, lowered the window all the way and just rode.

Once we got past the mouth of Topanga Canyon I started seeing packs of surfers on the swells. I checked Patrick and saw him taking glances out toward the water.

“It said in the file you did your rehab at Crossroads in Antigua,” I said.

“Yeah. The place Eric Clapton started.”

“Nice?”

“As far as those places go, I suppose.”

“True. Any waves there?”

“None to speak of. I didn’t get much of a chance to use a board anyway. Did you do rehab?”

“Yeah, in Laurel Canyon.”

“That place all the stars go to?”

“It was close to home.”

“Yeah, well, I went the other way. I was as far from my friends and my home as possible. It worked.”

“You thinking about going back into surfing?”

He glanced out the window before answering. A dozen surfers in wet suits were straddling their boards out there, waiting on the next set.

“I don’t think so. At least not on a professional level. My shoulder’s shot.”

I was about to ask what he needed his shoulder for when he continued his answer.

“The paddling’s one thing but the key thing is getting up. I lost my move when I fucked up my shoulder. Excuse the language.”

“That’s okay.”

“Besides, I’m taking things one day at a time. They taught you that in Laurel Canyon, didn’t they?”

“They did. But surfing’s a one-day-at-a-time, one-wave-at-a-time sort of thing, isn’t it?”

He nodded and I watched his eyes. They kept tripping to the mirror and looking back at me.