Майкл Коннелли - Fair Warning

“What are we doing?” Hammond whispered.

“We’re going to see if McEvoy has been arraigned,” Vogel whispered back.

“How will we know?”

“Just watch the people they’re bringing out. Maybe we’ll see him.”

“Okay, but what’s the point? I don’t get why we’re looking for this guy.”

“Because we might need him.”

“How?”

“As you know, Detective Mattson filed his reports on the case in the department’s online case archives. I took a look. You’re right, the reporter knew Portrero, the victim. The detectives interviewed him and he voluntarily gave his DNA to prove he’s not the guy.”

“So?” Hammond asked.

“So, that DNA is somewhere in your lab. And you know what to do.”

“What are you talking about?”

Hammond realized he had said it too loud. People on the benches in front of them turned to look back. What Vogel was suggesting was beyond anything they had even thought of before.

“First of all,” he whispered. “If it’s not assigned to me I can’t get near it — different procedures than Orange County. Second, we both know he isn’t the Shrike. I would never frame an innocent man.”

“Come on, isn’t it just like what you did in Orange County?” Vogel whispered back.

“What? That was completely different. I kept somebody from going to jail for what should not even be a crime. I didn’t send him there. And this is murder we’re talking about here.”

“It was a crime in the eyes of the law.”

“Have you ever heard the saying that it’s better that a hundred guilty men escape than one innocent suffer? Benjamin fucking Franklin.”

“Whatever. All I’m saying is, we could use this guy to buy us time. Time to find the Shrike.”

“And then do what? Say Never mind, I cooked the DNA ? That might work for you but not me. We need to shut it all down. Everything. Now.”

“Not yet. We need it open in order to find the guy.”

The dread that had been growing in Hammond’s chest was in full bloom now. He knew his hatred and greed had led him to this. It was a nightmare he saw no way out of.

“Hey,” Vogel whispered. “I think that’s him.”

Vogel surreptitiously pointed his chin at the corral at the front of the courtroom. A fresh line of arrestees had been led in by the courtroom deputies. Hammond thought that the third man looked like the mug shot he had seen the night before. It looked like the reporter, Jack McEvoy. He looked weary and worn down from his night in jail.

The courtroom was the crowded port of entry to the criminal justice system, a place where those swept up in the maw of the legal machinery stood before a judge for the first time for a reading of the charges against them. Then their initial court date would be scheduled, the first step in their long and twisting pathway through the morass that would leave them at least bowed and bloodied, if not convicted and incarcerated.

I saw Bill Marchand rise from a seat in the row running along the front rail of the courtroom and start making his way toward me. It had been a night without sleep, and every muscle in my body seemed to hurt from the hours I had spent clenched like a fist and fearful in the communal holding tank. I had been in jail before and knew that danger could come from any quarter. It was a place where men felt betrayed by their lives and the world, and that made them desperate and dangerous, ready to attack anybody and anything that appeared vulnerable.

When Marchand got to the slot through which we would be able to talk, I opened with the five most urgent words in the world to me.

“Get me out of here.”

The lawyer nodded.

“That’s the plan,” he said. “I already talked to the prosecutor and explained to her the hornet’s nest her detectives have kicked over, and she’s going to nolle pros this one. We’ll get you out of here in a couple hours tops.”

“The DA’s just going to drop the charge?” I asked.

“Actually, it’s the city attorney because it’s a misdemeanor charge. But they’ve got nothing to support it. You were doing your job with full First Amendment protections. Myron’s here and ready to go to war. I told the prosecutor, you arraign this reporter on that charge and that man over there will hold a press conference outside the courthouse within the hour. And it won’t be the kind of press her office wants.”

“Where’s Myron now?”

I scanned the crowded rows of the gallery. I didn’t see Myron but motion caught my eye and I thought I saw someone duck behind another person as though bending down to pick something up. When the man came back up, he looked at me and then shifted behind the person sitting in front of him. He was balding and wore glasses. It wasn’t Myron.

“He’s around somewhere,” Marchand said.

At that moment I heard my name as Judge Crower called my case. Marchand turned to the bench and identified himself as counsel for the defense. A woman stood up at the crowded prosecution table and identified herself as Deputy City Attorney Jocelyn Rose.

“Your Honor, we move to drop the charge against the defendant at this time,” she said.

“You are sure?” Crower asked.

“Yes, Your Honor.”

“Very well. Case dismissed. Mr. McEvoy, you’re free to go.”

Only I wasn’t. I wasn’t free to go until after a two-hour wait to be bussed back to the county jail, where my property was returned and I was processed out. The morning was gone, I had missed both breakfast and lunch at the jail, and I had no transportation home.

But when I stepped through the jail exit I found Myron Levin waiting for me.

“Sorry, Myron. How long were you waiting?”

“It’s okay. I had my phone. You all right?”

“I am now.”

“You hungry? Or you want to go home?”

“Both. But I’m starving.”

“Let’s go eat.”

“Thanks for coming for me, Myron.”

To get to the food quicker we went just over to Chinatown and ordered po’boy sandwiches at Little Jewel. We grabbed a table and waited for them to be made.

“So, what are you going to do?” I asked.

“About what?” Myron asked.

“The LAPD’s flagrant violation of the First Amendment. Mattson can’t get away with this shit. You should hold a press conference anyway. I bet the Times will be all over this. The New York Times, I’m talking about.”

“It’s not that simple.”

“It’s very simple. I was on a story, Mattson didn’t like it. So he falsely arrests me. It’s not only First Amendment, it’s the Fourth as well. They had no probable cause to detain me. I was doing my job.”

“I know all of that but the charges were dropped and you’re back on the story. No harm, no foul.”

“What? I spent a night in jail where I was backed into a corner with my eyes open all night.”

“But nothing happened. You’re okay.”

“No, I’m not okay, Myron. You try it sometime.”

“Look, I’m sorry for what happened, but I think we should roll with it, not inflame things any further, and get back on the story. Speaking of which, I got a text from Emily. She says she got some good stuff from UC–Irvine.”

I looked across the table at Myron for a long moment, trying to read him.

“Don’t deflect the conversation,” I said. “What is it really? The donors?”

“No, Jack, I told you before, the donors have nothing to do with this,” Myron said. “I would no sooner let donors dictate what we do and what we cover than I would let Big Tobacco or the auto industry dictate to us.”

“Then why are we sitting on our hands on this? That guy Mattson needs to be raked over the coals.”