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hospital instead.
    I had one guy come in and describe himself as an “exotic talent coordinator.” A little delving and I found out he just didn’t
     like the word “pimp.” He thought that was beneath him. I told him the law didn’t care what he called himself, he still couldn’t
     peddle flesh.
    He wondered if he was protected by the Equal Protection Clause of the United States Constitution.
    Um, no.
    Then a stripper came to see me. She was upset about her working conditions. I told her she could call herself a “disrobing
     technician” and quit.
    Only, the toking ex-employee, came back to see me. Said he got a new job that never required him to pee in a cup. I asked
     him what the job was. A psychic hotline, he said. He had come to thank me. And offered me a blunt. I told him no, I don’t
     take medicine away from the sick.
    “It’s a gift, man!” he said.
    “The greatest gift,” I said, “would be knowing that you’re back in full, vigorous bloom.”
    He looked at me and frowned. Then said if I ever needed some help with an investigation, to give him a call. He might be able
     to predict what moves I should make. Or, if he couldn’t do it, he could ask some of his psychic friends.
    I told him to get off the Jane and try fresh juices.
    He said, “Something’s going to happen to you, I have a real feeling about that.”
    “You’ll go far, my friend,” I said.

13
    T HE RAINS LET up toward the end of the month. And on a sunny Tuesday in January, I had an actual court appearance. Nothing like going to
     court to clear out the existential toxins. You could concentrate on the venom of the justice system for a while.
    Even with a client like Carl “Santa Claus” Richess. Not exactly a name to inspire fear, like Sammy “the Bull” Gravano.
    But it was all I had, and I was glad. I needed to get back in the game.
    The Hollywood branch of the Los Angeles Superior Court sits in a sand-colored building on Hollywood Boulevard, east of Gower,
     bracketed by a tattoo parlor on one side and a meeting hall of the Salvation Army on the other.
    What a town this is. You can get tagged, convicted, and saved, all in the same day, without walking more than a block.
    I parked in the front lot and went through security and into Department 77, the only courtroom on the first floor. It was
     half filled with people waiting to be arraigned, or waiting with family members waiting to be arraigned, or people who, in
     the future, would no doubt be arraigned.
    And some lawyers.
    Carl Richess was waiting for me inside. He stood up, filling about half the courtroom. The other half was filled up with two
     more of the Richess family—Kate and a guy almost as big as Carl. Carl introduced him as his brother, Eric.
    “Moral support,” Eric said. He was dressed in blue jeans and a denim shirt with the sleeves rolled up. I could see the family
     resemblance, though Carl looked a bit more like his mother. Still, I couldn’t help thinking of Tweedledum and Tweedledee.
     Put the brothers in striped shirts and beanie hats, and you’d think you were at Disneyland.
    Carl wore a brown sport coat over black slacks, and a red-and-greenstriped tie. It was funny and pitiful at the same time.
     He was trying to look respectful, and no doubt this was the best he had in his closet. Probably something off the Big and
     Tall rack at Sears.
    I respected his effort. He looked like he needed effort on his behalf, too. Like Kate had said. He was holding a Dodgers baseball
     cap in his hands. “My lucky hat,” he said.
    Terrific. I was in a blue suit, also an off-the-rack job, and didn’t feel lucky at all.
    “I know you said we didn’t have to come,” Kate said. “But we’ve always stuck together, no matter what.”
    “That’s right,” Eric said.
    “You da man,” Carl said to me.
    “I am da man, oh, yes,” I said. “Only it’s not going to be very exciting.”
    “Can’t you get them to just throw it out?” Kate said.
    “The