Illegal Hardback - 2009

Chapter One


Judge Rollins drew a handgun from beneath his black robes, pointed the snub-nosed barrel at Jimmy Payne’s chest and said, “Who you pimping for, you low-life shyster?”

Payne gaped at the revolver.

This cannot be happening.

The judge gestured toward the stacks of hundred-dollar bills on his desk. “C’mon, Payne. You’re not smart enough to dream this up on your own.”

They faced each other in the judge’s chambers, a tranquil refuge of leatherbound books and walnut wainscoting. Payne felt his knees wobble. “I swear, Judge. I just represent the defendant. Ramon Carollo.”

“Not like you to defend human traffickers. I remember the hell you raised when those wetbacks got barbecued in a trailer truck.”

“I like to call them ‘undocumented aliens.’?”

“Why? They from Mars?”

The judge vaulted out of his high-backed chair. Quick for a big man. Silver hair swept straight back, like feathers on a snow goose. Shoulders as wide as a bookcase.

“Take off your clothes, Payne.”

“What?”

“You heard me.”

“I swear I’m not wearing a wire. You can pat me down.”

“Strip!”

Payne wasn’t sure he could. His joints seemed rusted shut.

“Now!”

With jerky motions, Payne kicked off his shoes, unhooked his belt, and dropped his trousers.

“You bring me nine stacks of hundred-dollar bills, fifty to a stack.” Judge Rollins motioned toward the open briefcase on his desk and did the math in his head. “Forty-five thousand dollars.”

“That’s the offer,” Payne agreed.

“Odd amount. Like it was supposed to be fifty thousand, but some half-assed bag man skimmed five off the top.”

“No, sir.” Payne lowered his tie and slipped out of his shirt. “Forty-five is all I’ve got to spend.”

“No sale, shitbird.”

“I thought it was worth a shot, Your Honor. But let’s just forget the whole thing. I’ll put my pants on and—”

“Drop those undershorts, too.” The judge waved the gun like a king with a scepter.

Payne pulled down his red-and-white boxers with the Los Angeles Clippers logo. He preferred them to the Lakers purple-and-gold shorts, not for the colors, but because he favored underdogs.

“Now turn around and spread your cheeks.”

“No way, Judge.”

“Do it!”

At thirty-seven, Payne was in good shape. Flat stomach, decent chest, a sinewy runner’s body. He spun around and bent over. “Like I said, Your Honor, no wire.”

Judge Rollins gazed off. “I don’t know whether to shoot you or arrest you.”

Jimmy straightened and turned around. “Just let me go, Judge. There’s a lot of good I can do out there.”

“Out where? You’re Jimmy Payne. Royal Payne. You cut corners. You represent undesirables. You piss people off.”

“Honestly, Judge. I’m gonna change my life.”

“People don’t change, Payne. They just get old and die. Sometimes, they don’t even get old.”

Payne stepped sideways toward a set of shelves decorated with framed vanity photos. Judge Rollins with Mayor Villaraigosa, Senator Boxer, some local bigwigs, and a pretty young woman in a pink sash, the Rose Bowl queen, maybe. Alongside the photos, the scales of justice. Bronze. Heavy. Tilted heavily to one side. One more step and Payne could grab the scales by the blindfolded lady and take a swing at the judge.

“Freeze, sleazebag.” Rollins pulled back the hammer of the .38. As the click echoed in his brain, Payne thought of his son, Adam. Ten years old. Loved baseball. Cheeseburgers. Surfing. A boy needs his father.

Just how the hell did I get into this?

“Riveting ... filled with action, pathos, and even humor. ... The book’s best quality is the way Levine invests his characters with believable humanity.”—Booklist