Resurrection Walk

Barnett: Well, when you fire a gun, microscopic particles explode out of the gun. You can’t see them but they get on your hands and your arms and your clothes. Remember a deputy took samples from you at the house? He wiped your hands with those little round pads?

Sanz: It was a she. The deputy who did that.

Barnett: Well, the test came back positive. You had gunshot residue on your hands and that means you fired a weapon, Lucinda. So stop all the lies and talk to us. Work with us here. What happened?

Sanz: I told you, it wasn’t me. I wouldn’t shoot him.

Barnett: How do you explain the gunshot residue?

Sanz: I don’t know. I can’t. I think I want to have a lawyer now.

Barnett: Are you sure about that? We could clear all of this up right now so you can get back home with your boy.

Sanz: I didn’t do this.

Samuels: Last chance, Lucinda. You call a lawyer and we can’t help you anymore.

Sanz: I want to call a lawyer.

Barnett: Okay, this is over. You’re under arrest for the murder of Roberto Sanz. Please —

Sanz: No, I didn’t.

Barnett: Stand up now. We’re going to book you. And your lawyer will come see you.

I put the transcript aside and looked out the window. The freeway was elevated out here and I could see the tops of businesses and signs on poles high enough to be seen by the people in cars speeding by. I was angry. I had yet to meet Lucinda Sanz but I could tell she was unsophisticated in the ways of the police, despite having been married to a law officer. She’d tried to hold her own during the interview. She’d denied killing her ex. But she’d also given them many of the things they needed to make a case against her. She had talked herself through the gates.

“These guys...” I said. “Not very original.”

“Who?” Bosch asked.

“The interviewers, Samuels and Barnett.”

“How so?”

“Just leading her down the garden path with lies and false empathy. The old we-can-work-this-out routine. Just makes me mad.”

“You’d be surprised how often that works. Most killers... they want to be understood.”

“And they talk themselves right into jail.”

“What did they lie to her about?”

“More like what didn’t they lie to her about. But for starters they ran the GSR game on her. She didn’t bite.”

“Not sure that was a game if they told her she tested positive.”

“It better be or we have a problem with this whole innocence thing. Why don’t you think they were gaming her?”

“It was in one of the newspaper stories I read. Back when I was... well, we usually didn’t put our lies in the press releases. So I figure that part is true. She tested positive for GSR.”

“Get off at the next exit.”

“Why?”

“We’re turning around. I’ve wasted enough time on this.”

“Because of GSR?”

“I’m looking for habeas cases. I told you that, Harry. If she had gunshot residue on her hands, then we’re fucked.”

“GSR is not an exact science. I had cases... the lawyers brought in experts with whole lists of household products they claimed would pull the same result on the swipe pad.”

“Yeah, that was the inexact-science defense. A desperate move to sow doubt with a jury that won’t get us through the courtroom door on a habeas petition.”

“Look, we’re only ten minutes away from Chino. Let’s just go talk to her.”

I looked down at the transcript again and shook my head. I was changing my opinion of Second-Place Silver. Maybe he had gotten Lucinda Sanz the best outcome possible.

“Look,” I said, “just so we’re clear. Her appellate window would have closed at least two years ago. The only way back into this case is through a habeas petition offering new evidence that supports actual innocence. Then, by the way, we have to put up or shut up. We have to prove her innocent, like we did with Ochoa. So, fine, we can eat our po’ boys and then go in and talk to her. But if it’s not there, we’re done with this one and we’ll move on to the next.”

Bosch said nothing. I waited for his eyes to show in the rearview.

“So we’re cool?” I said.

“Totally,” Bosch said. “We’re cool.”

10

We sat at a table in an attorney-client room at the prison in Chino and waited for the guards to bring in Lucinda Sanz. I could hear the muffled sounds of steel doors banging and loudspeaker commands from guards. The sounds of a prison, even a prison for women, were never pleasant, even when muffled by concrete walls and steel.

“How are you going to start with her?” Bosch asked.

“The usual,” I said. “Begin with open-enders and then narrow the focus if we hear something good. But first she’s got to sign the papers or we’re out of here.”

Before Bosch could ask any further questions, the door opened and a female guard walked Lucinda Sanz into the room. I stood up, gave her my best smile, and nodded; Bosch stayed seated. She was placed in a chair across the table from us, then one wrist was locked to a bar that was bolted to the side of the table.

“Thank you, Officer,” I said.