Page 43 of The Proving Ground

“Is there any mention of it in the discovery material supplied by Tidalwaiv?”

“No, not that I can find.”

“Assholes. Hiding the ball once again. I’m going to shove it up Marcus Mason’s ass when we get to trial.”

“You’ll have to explain how you know what you know.”

“Yeah, that’s the problem. Protecting Challenger may lose us the case.”

“Is there any way to trick Mason into opening the door to Challenger and some of these other things we’re finding?”

“Easier said than done. But I’ll think on it. When was the last time you talked to her?”

“I checked in with her Saturday. You know, to thank her for the material she gave us and see if there was any change or anything I could do for her.”

“And?”

“She was still saying no on testifying.”

I nodded.

“Okay, keep at it,” I said.

“That’s the plan,” Jack said.

I pulled my phone as I left the cage through the copper curtain. I checked my contacts for a name from the past but couldn’t find it. I walked over to Lorna’s desk.

“You remember Bambadjan Bishop?” I asked. “Do we have a file on him? I need his cell number.”

Lorna opened a file search window.

“I should have it,” she said. “Why do you need his cell?”

“No reason,” I said. “I just want to check on him.”

She found the number and wrote it down on a Post-it, then handed it to me. I headed back to my office so I could avoid further questions. Bishop was a former employee and client—in that order. A few years earlier, when I spent several weeks in the L.A. County jail falsely accused of murder, I hired Bishop to protect me. He wasa big man whose face and body seemed shaped by violence. After I survived incarceration, I took on his case and got him out. It was part of the deal we had made.

I closed the door to my office and sat down behind the desk. I opened a drawer and took out one of the burners I kept on hand, like the one I had given Naomi Kitchens. I booted it up and called Bishop, hoping he would take a call from an unknown number.

He did, but not until I called him three times in a row.

“Who the fuck is this?” he said.

“Bamba,” I said. “It’s your lawyer.”

“Mickey?”

“That’s right. How are you, Bamba?”

“I’m fine, man. Doin’ fine.”

“You working?”

“This and that. You know.”

“I might have something for you, if you’re interested.”

“Always interested.”