I called Lorna Taylor back first. Lorna is my case manager. The phone number that runs on my half-page ad in the yellow pages and on thirty-six bus benches scattered through high-crime areas in the south and east county goes directly to the office/second bedroom of her Kings Road condo in West Hollywood. The address the California bar and all the clerks of the courts have for me is the condo as well.

Lorna is the first buffer. To get to me you start with her. My cell number is given out to only a few and Lorna is the gatekeeper. She is tough, smart, professional and beautiful. Lately, though, I only get to verify this last attribute once a month or so when I take her to lunch and sign checks-she’s my bookkeeper, too.

“Law office,” she said when I called in.

“Sorry, I was still in court,” I said, explaining why I didn’t get her call. “What’s up?”

“You talked to Val, right?”

“Yeah. I’m heading down to Van Nuys now. I got that at eleven.”

“He called here to make sure. He sounds nervous.”

“He thinks this guy is the golden goose, wants to make sure he’s along for the ride. I’ll call him back to reassure him.”

“I did some preliminary checking on the name Louis Ross Roulet. Credit check is excellent. The name in the Times archive comes up with a few hits. All real estate transactions. Looks like he works for a real estate firm in Beverly Hills. It’s called Windsor Residential Estates. Looks like they handle all exclusive pocket listings-not the sort of properties where they put a sign out front.”

“That’s good. Anything else?”

“Not on that. And just the usual so far on the phone.”

Which meant that she had fielded the usual number of calls drawn by the bus benches and the yellow pages, all from people who wanted a lawyer.