The 7th Canon Read Online Free PDF

holiday but was quickly learning the truth of another of Lou’s adages. “The law,” Lou liked to say, “is a jealous mistress, and she will take all of your time if you let her.”
    In need of a mental break, Donley stood from his desk to stretch. When he did, he sensed something out of the ordinary. The accordion-style radiator beneath the window hissed and spit, but otherwise, the office was quiet. Too quiet. Eerily quiet. He checked his watch. Lou was late.
    Lou was never late. Lou was as regular as the spit and hiss of the radiator. He’d stormed through the office door at precisely seven thirty every morning for better than forty years. Within minutes, he had his jacket off, shirtsleeves rolled up, and the phone pressed to his ear. Once Lou arrived at the office, quiet went out the window. His volume dial was loud, louder, and loudest. If Lou wasn’t talking on the telephone, he was shouting for Ruth-Bell to get him another file, lunch, or more coffee. No shrinking violet, Ruth-Bell gave as good as she got, usually yelling back something like, “I have two arms. If you wanted a receptionist with eight, you should have hired an octopus!”
    How the two of them had worked decades together without killing each other was one of life’s great mysteries. Donley just tried to avoid the cross fire.
    Donley walked into the reception area and refilled his mug from the well-stained coffeepot, figuring edgy was better than sleepy in court. He again considered his watch, confirming the time with the German cuckoo clock on the wall to the right of the door. This was getting downright unnerving.
    The door opened, nearly hitting him. Lou burst in, briefcase and brown-bag lunch in hand, a raincoat over his arm.
    “Where in the love of Christ were you last night?” Lou didn’t stop for an answer, walking into his office. He tossed his raincoat at a cigar-store Indian, one of the many knickknacks he’d accumulated from appreciative clients. The coat hit the wooden figure and slid to the throw rug.
    Donley followed him, picking up the coat. “What are you talking about? I was at home.”
    Lou removed his sport coat and rolled up the sleeves of his shirt. He’d already pulled down the knot of his tie and unbuttoned the collar. “I called.”
    “When?”
    “Late.”
    Donley recalled the phone ringing and not allowing Kim to answer it. He draped the coat over a chair. “I must have missed it. Why? What’s going on?”
    “Did you watch the news?”
    “Please don’t tell me Albert flew off on the six o’clock news.”
    Lou didn’t smile. The good lawyers, like Lou, had short memories. Albert was already a distant memory.
    “I got a priest at SF General,” Lou said.
    “What do you mean? What happened?”
    Lou handed him the folded newspaper. “Page one. I’ve been on the phone with Don for an hour already this morning. They took him to the hospital.”
    “The archbishop?”
    Lou looked at him like he was nuts. “What? No, the priest.” Lou pulled open the door behind his desk, revealing a water closet with a sink and medicine cabinet. He shot a plug of shaving cream into his palm and began to lather his face. “Three hours to put a cast on his wrist. What were they doing, grinding the plaster? I got the Martinez trial this morning. Don is going to call to find out what I know, which is jack at this point. Tell him I’m in trial, but tell him I’ll try to call him when we break.” Donley cringed as Lou swiped the old-fashioned double-edged razor down his cheek, the blades scraping the coarse stubble. “I called a friend of mine last night, a private investigator named Frank Ross. Ruth-Bell has his number, if she graces us with an appearance this morning. I asked him to run some things down for me. Call him this afternoon, and find out what he knows. In the interim, I need you to get a hold of the district attorney, and find out what they have and when I can have it. They’ll jerk you around, but just get the