“My priority starting today is Elliot. There are a few things on these other cases that I’ll need to pay some attention to but for the most part I’m going to be on Elliot from here on out. We’ve got jury selection in eight days. Today I want to start at the crime scene.”

“I should go with you,” Cisco said.

“No, I just want to get a feel for the place. You can get in there with a camera and tape measure later.”

“Mick, isn’t there any way you can convince Elliot to delay?” Lorna asked. “Doesn’t he realize that you need time to study and understand the case?”

“I told him that, but he’s not interested. He made it a condition of my hire. I had to agree to go to trial next week or he’d find another lawyer who could. He says he’s innocent and doesn’t want to wait a single day longer to prove it.”

“Do you believe him?”

I shrugged.

“Doesn’t matter. He believes it. And he’s got this strange confidence in it all turning out his way — like the Monday morning box office. So I either get ready to go to trial at the end of next week or I lose the client.”

Just then the door to the office swung open and revealed Wren Williams standing tentatively in the doorway.

“Excuse me,” she said.

“Hello, Wren,” I said. “Glad you’re here. Could you wait out there in reception, and Lorna will be right out to work with you?”

“No problem. You also have one of the clients waiting out here. Patrick Henson. He was already waiting when I came in.”

I looked at my watch. It was five of nine. It was a good sign in regard to Patrick Henson.

“Then, send him in.”

A young man walked in. Patrick Henson was smaller than I thought he would be, but maybe it was the low center of gravity that made him a good surfer. He had the requisite hardened tan but his hair was cropped short. No earrings, no white shell necklace or shark’s tooth. No tattoos that I could see. He wore black cargo pants and what probably passed as his best shirt. It had a collar.

“Patrick, we spoke on the phone yesterday. I’m Mickey Haller and this is my case manager, Lorna Taylor. This big guy is Cisco, my investigator.”

He stepped toward the desk and shook our hands. His grip was firm.

“I’m glad you decided to come in. Is that your fish on the wall back there?”

Without moving his feet Henson swiveled at the hips as if on a surfboard and looked at the fish hanging on the wall.

“Yeah, that’s Betty.”

“You gave a stuffed fish a name?” Lorna asked. “What, was it a pet?”

Henson smiled, more to himself than to us.