Resurrection Walk

“To see what he remembers about his father,” Bosch said. “And about that night.”

“No,” Sanz said emphatically. “I don’t want that. I don’t want him to be part of this.”

“But he already is, Cindi,” I said. “He was there that night. More important, he was with his father all day before coming home to you. As far as we know, no one ever talked to him about what happened that day. I want to know why his father was two hours late getting him home.”

“He’s thirteen now,” Bosch said. “Maybe he remembers something about that day that will help us. That will help you.”

Sanz pursed her lips as if she were getting ready to dig in her heels on her refusal to give permission. But then she changed course.

“I will ask him,” she said. “If he says yes, then yes, you can talk to him.”

“Good,” I said. “We’ll do our best not to upset him.”

“That will be impossible if you are asking about his father’s death,” Sanz said. “Eric loved his father. My greatest pain is for him to have his mother in prison for killing his father when I know I didn’t do it.”

“I understand,” I said and nodded. I tried to move on. “How often do you and Eric talk?”

“Once or twice each week,” Sanz said. “More if I get phone access.”

“Does he come to visit you?”

“Once a month. He comes with my mother.”

There was a momentary pause as I considered how much this woman had lost whether she was innocent or not. Bosch barged into the silent space, once again without any finesse.

“The gun is not going to show up, is it?” he asked.

Lucinda seemed baffled by the sudden change in direction. I knew that this was a police tactic — ask questions out of sequence or out of context to generate reactions and keep interview subjects from getting too comfortable.

When Lucinda didn’t answer, Bosch pressed.

“The gun used to kill your ex has never turned up,” Bosch said. “It won’t now, will it?”

“I have no idea!” Sanz yelled. “How would I know?”

“I don’t know,” Bosch said. “That’s why I asked. I’m worried that the gun could turn up while we’re in the middle of this and that could cause us and you a lot of problems.”

“I did not kill my husband and I don’t know who did,” Sanz said with a sharp edge to her voice. “And I don’t have the gun.”

She looked fixedly at Bosch until he looked away. One more time I saw the unblinking stare. I was starting to believe her. And that, I knew from experience, was a dangerous place to be.

11

I drove back. Bosch took the front passenger seat and went through the pocket file from Frank Silver, apparently to show me that a review of the case could be done without spreading it out on the rear seat. I acted like I didn’t notice and kept my eyes on the road, thinking about Lucinda Sanz and how I might be able to save her.

Going to the prison had been the right call. Seeing her in person, hearing her voice and watching her eyes, made all the difference. She became more than a person at the center of a legal case to me. She became real, and in the sincerity of her words I sensed the truth. I sensed that she might be that rarest of all creatures: an innocent client.

But that belief only left me feeling hollow as I drove back to the city. What my gut was telling me meant nothing in a court of law. I had to find a way. And though it was early in the case, I also knew that in front of me was a daunting task that would leave deep scars on me if I failed.

Bosch and I had stayed with Lucinda and questioned her until the moment when the humorless guard who had brought her into the interview room returned to take her out. Lucinda left with a piece of paper with our phone numbers on it and a promise from us to do our best in evaluating the case and quickly coming to a decision on how to proceed. That, too, would be hollow if the ultimate decision was to do nothing because there was nothing I could do.

I glanced over at Bosch. We had not spoken about Lucinda since we’d left the prison. I’d offered to drive and Bosch had taken me up on it. He got right into the pocket file once we were on the road. He barely looked up the whole way, even when I hit the brakes and the horn a few times.

“What are you thinking, Harry?” I finally asked.

“Well,” Bosch said. “I’ve sat across the table from a lot of killers over the years. Most of them can’t look you right in the eye and deny it. She scored points with me for that.”

I nodded.

“Me too. I had the craziest idea in that room when she was telling us she didn’t do it.”

“What was that?”

“I had this idea of putting her on the stand and letting her win the judge over.”

“I thought you always preached the opposite. Clients should stay out of the witness chair. Wasn’t it you who said people talk themselves into prison?”