The Reversal

“How old was your daughter when she left Winnie the Pooh behind?” he asked.

Haller and McPherson looked at each other. Haller deferred.

“Five or six,” McPherson said. “Why?”

“Mine, too, I think. But this twelve-year-old had it on her necklace. I wonder why.”

“Maybe because of where it came from,” Haller said. “Hayley-our daughter-still wears a bracelet I got for her about five years ago.”

McPherson looked at him as if challenging the assertion.

“Not all the time,” Haller said quickly. “But on occasion. Sometimes when I pick her up. Maybe the necklace came from her real father before he died.”

A low chime came from McPherson’s computer and she checked her e-mail. She studied the screen for a few moments before speaking.

“This is from John Rivas, who handles afternoon arraignments in Department one hundred. Jessup’s now got a criminal defense attorney and John’s working on getting Jessup on the docket for a bail hearing. He’s coming over on the last bus from City Jail.”

“Who’s the lawyer?” Haller asked.

“You’ll love this. Clever Clive Royce is taking the case pro bono. It’s a referral from the GJP.”

Bosch knew the name. Royce was a high-profile guy who was a media darling who never missed a chance to stand in front of a camera and say all the things he wasn’t allowed to say in court.

“Of course he’s taking it pro bono,” Haller said. “He’ll make it up on the back end. Sound bites and headlines, that’s all Clive cares about.”

“I’ve never gone up against him,” McPherson said. “I can’t wait.”

“Is Jessup actually on the docket?”

“Not yet. But Royce is talking to the clerk. Rivas wants to know if we want him to handle it. He’ll oppose bail.”

“No, we’ll take it,” Haller said. “Let’s go.”

McPherson closed her computer at the same time Bosch put the top back on the evidence box.

“You want to come?” Haller asked him. “Get a look at the enemy?”

“I just spent seven hours with him, remember?”

“I don’t think he was talking about Jessup,” McPherson said.

Bosch nodded.

“No, I’ll pass,” he said. “I’m going to take this stuff over to SID and get to work on tracking down our witness. I’ll let you know when I find her.”

Seven

Tuesday, February 16, 5:30 P.M.

Department 100 was the largest courtroom in the CCB and reserved for morning and evening arraignment court, the twin intake points of the local justice system. All those charged with crimes had to be brought before a judge within twenty-four hours, and in the CCB this required a large courtroom with a large gallery section where the families and friends of the accused could sit. The courtroom was used for first appearances after arrest, when the loved ones were still naive about the lengthy, devastating and difficult journey the defendant was embarking upon. At arraignment, it was not unusual to have mom, dad, wife, sister-in-law, aunt, uncle and even a neighbor or two in the courtroom in a show of support for the defendant and outrage at his arrest. In another eighteen months, when the case would grind to a finale at sentencing, the defendant would be lucky to have even dear old mom still in attendance.

The other side of the gate was usually just as crowded, with lawyers of all stripes. Grizzled veterans, bored public defenders, slick cartel reps, wary prosecutors and media hounds all mingled in the well or stood against the glass partition surrounding the prisoner pen and whispered to their clients.

Presiding over this anthill was Judge Malcolm Firestone, who sat with his head down and his sharp shoulders jutting up and closer to his ears with each passing year. His black robe gave them the appearance of folded wings and the overall image was one of Firestone as a vulture waiting impatiently to dine on the bloody detritus of the justice system.

Firestone handled the evening arraignment docket, which started at three P.M. and went as far into the night as the list of detainees required. Consequently, he was a jurist who liked to keep things moving. You had to act fast in one hundred or risk being run over and left behind. In here, justice was an assembly line with a conveyor belt that never stopped turning. Firestone wanted to get home. The lawyers wanted to get home. Everybody wanted to get home.

I entered the courtroom with Maggie and immediately saw the cameras being set up in a six-foot corral to the left side, across the courtroom from the glass pen that housed defendants brought in six at a time. Without the glare of spotlights this time, I saw my friend Sticks setting the legs of the tool that provided his nickname, his tripod. He saw me and gave me a nod and I returned it.

Maggie tapped me on the arm and pointed toward a man seated at the prosecution table with three other lawyers.

“That’s Rivas on the end.”

“Okay. You go talk to him while I check in with the clerk.”

“You don’t have to check in, Haller. You’re a prosecutor, remember?”

“Oh, cool. I forgot.”