Resurrection Walk

“Well, we have a sliding rate for all such cases. We get a standard twenty-five percent of the first million, goes up to thirty-three on a prorated scale. Most lawyers have a flat rate of a third or higher all the way through. Me, my cut gets bigger only if the check gets bigger.”

“Not bad when it’s a slam dunk like that one looks to be.”

“It’s never as easy as it looks.”

“But with the haystack, you’re not doing it for that second-level payout, right?”

“It’s strictly pro bono on all the work we do up front. Now, if we get somebody out, I’m happy to represent them in a suit for damages and compensation at my usual rate. But that’s pie-in-the-sky money. In most cases compensation is limited by state caps. So could there be money down the line, yes. But this is not a moneymaking operation. Why do you think I was going over cases with Lorna? I need to put gas in the tank. I need paying cases so you can work the haystack.”

“I just wanted to be sure, that’s all.”

“Well, you can be. The deal I made with Ochoa was made before all the letters started coming in, and it was Hayley who suggested I create my own little innocence project. The only difference is the real Innocence Project takes donations to the cause. I don’t.”

“Got it.”

They dropped back into silence until Bosch started up the hill on Fareholm. He passed Haller’s house and turned around at the top, then came back down and parked at the curb by the stairs to Haller’s front door.

They both got out.

“Thank you, Harry,” Haller said.

“What are you going to do?” Bosch asked.

“Well, I haven’t had a half day off like this in months. I don’t want to waste it. I might go over to Wilshire and hit the range.”

“You play golf?”

“Taking lessons.”

“And you’re a member at Wilshire?”

“Joined a few months ago.”

“Good for you.”

“What’s that mean, that tone?”

“Nothing. Just means good for you that you’re in a club. You deserve it.”

“I got a friend in the public defender’s office who’s a member. He sponsored me.”

“Nice.”

“What are you going to do this afternoon?”

“I don’t know. Probably take a nap.”

“You should.”

Bosch handed him the keys to the Lincoln and started walking down the street to where he had parked his Cherokee. Haller called after him.

“How’s the new car?” he said.

“Like it,” Bosch said. “Still miss the old one.”

“That’s so Bosch.”

Bosch wasn’t sure what that meant. He had found and bought a 1994 Jeep Cherokee to replace the one he had lost in a crash during the investigation he’d been on with Ballard the year before. The “new” old car had fewer miles on it and a better suspension. It had come with new tires and a recent paint job. It didn’t have all the bells and whistles that the Navigator had, but it was good enough to get him home.

5

After waking from a lengthy afternoon nap, Bosch checked his phone and saw he’d slept through a series of texts; he read the messages from his daughter, Ballard, Aronson, and a bartender at the Catalina Bar and Grill. He got up, washed his face, and went out to the dining room, where the table had long ago become a desk. He stopped at the shelves by the turntable, flipped through his record collection, and pulled out an old one that had been one of his mother’s favorites. Released in 1960 — a year before her death — the album had been kept in pristine condition. Bosch’s care over the years had been motivated by respect for the recording artist as well as for his mother.

He carefully dropped the needle on the second track of Introducing Wayne Shorter. Stepping out from Art Blakey’s Jazz Messengers to record his first effort as a leader, Shorter soon after was playing the tenor saxophone alongside Miles Davis and Herbie Hancock. Theo at the Catalina had left Bosch the message that Shorter had just passed on.

Bosch stood there in front of his speakers and listened to the moves made by Shorter on track two. His breath, his finger work, it was all there. It had been more than six decades since Bosch had first heard these notes, but the news of Shorter’s death had triggered the memory of this song that still meant so much to him. The track ended and Bosch carefully lifted the arm, drew it back, and started “Harry’s Last Stand” once more. He then moved to the table to go back to work.

Maddie’s message was short, her daily check on him. He would respond with a call to her later. Ballard had texted to say she’d sent him an email. He logged in and saw she’d forwarded links to two Los Angeles Times stories from five years earlier. Bosch started to read them in chronological order.