Michael Connelly: The Reversal

“I don’t think we have much of a case if we don’t have her,” Haller said. “We’re going to need a real live person to point the finger across twenty-four years and say he did it.”

“I agree,” McPherson said. “She’s key. The jury will need to hear the woman tell them that as a girl she did not make a mistake. That she was sure then and she is sure now. If we can’t find her and get her to do that, then we have the victim’s hair to go with and that’s about it. They’ll have the DNA and that will trump everything.”

“And we will go down in flames,” Haller said.

McPherson didn’t respond, but she didn’t have to.

“Don’t worry,” Bosch said. “I’ll find her.”

The two lawyers looked at him. It wasn’t a time for empty rah-rah speeches. He meant it.

“If she’s alive,” he said, “I’ll find her.”

“Good,” Haller said. “That’ll be your first priority.”

Bosch took out his key chain and opened the small penknife attached to it. He used it to cut the red seal on the evidence box. He had no idea what would be in the box. The evidence that had been introduced at trial twenty-four years earlier was still in the possession of the DA’s Office. This box would contain other evidence that was gathered but not presented at trial.

Bosch put on a set of latex gloves from his pocket and then opened the box. On top was a paper bag that contained the victim’s dress. It was a surprise. He had assumed that the dress had been introduced at trial, if only for the sympathetic response it would get from the jurors.

Opening the bag brought a musty smell to the room. He lifted the dress out, holding it up by the shoulders. All three of them were silent. Bosch was holding up a dress that a little girl had been wearing when she was murdered. It was blue with a darker blue bow in the front. A six-inch square had been cut out of the front hem, the location of the semen stain.

“Why is this here?” Bosch asked. “Wouldn’t they have presented this at trial?”

Haller said nothing. McPherson leaned forward and looked closely at the dress as she considered a response.

“I think… they didn’t show it because of the cutout. Showing the dress would let the defense ask about the cutout. That would lead to the blood-typing. The prosecution chose not to get into it during the presentation of the evidence. They probably relied on crime scene photos that showed the girl in the dress. They left it to the defense to introduce it and they never did.”

Bosch folded the dress and put it down on the table. Also in the box was a pair of black patent leather shoes. They seemed very small and sad to him. There was a second paper bag, which contained the victim’s underwear and socks. An accompanying lab report stated that the items had been checked for bodily fluids as well as hair and fiber evidence but no such evidence had been found.

At the bottom of the box was a plastic bag containing a silver necklace with a charm on it. He looked at it through the plastic and identified the figure on the charm as Winnie the Pooh. There was also a bag containing a bracelet of aqua-blue beads on an elastic string.

“That’s it,” he said.

“We should have forensics take a fresh look at it all,” McPherson said. “You never know. Technology has advanced quite a bit in twenty-four years.”

“I’ll get it done,” Bosch said.

“By the way,” McPherson asked, “where were the shoes found? They’re not on the victim’s feet in the crime scene photos.”

Bosch looked at the property report that was taped to the inside of the box’s top.

“According to this they were found underneath the body. They must’ve come off in the truck, maybe when she was strangled. The killer threw them into the Dumpster first, then dropped in her body.”

The images conjured by the items in the box had brought a decidedly somber mood to the prosecution team. Bosch started to carefully return everything to the box. He put the envelope containing the necklace in last.

“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.”

Tuesday, February 16, 5:30P.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.