Michael Connelly - The Reversal

“Maybe he likes driving on Mulholland and seeing the lights.”

That was a good point and Bosch needed to consider it.

“Lieutenant, can you have your people call me the next time he goes there? I don’t care what time it is.”

“I can have them call you but you’re not going to be able to get in there and get close. It’s too risky. We don’t want to expose the surveillance.”

“I understand, but have them call me. I just want to know. Now, what about these logs? Is there a way for me to get them a little quicker?”

“You can come by SIS and pick one up every morning if you want. As you probably noticed, the logs run six P.M. to six P.M. Each daily log is posted by seven the following morning.”

“Okay, LT, I’ll do that. Thanks for the info.”

“Have a good one.”

Bosch closed the phone, wondering about Jessup in Franklin Canyon and what he was doing on his visits there.

“What did he say?” Maddie asked.

Bosch hesitated, wondering for the hundredth time whether he should be telling her as much as he did about his cases.

“He said my guy’s gone back to that park the last two nights. Each time, he just sits there and waits.”

“For what?”

“Nobody knows.”

“Maybe he just wants to be somewhere where he’s completely by himself and away from everybody.”

“Maybe.”

But Bosch doubted it. He believed there was a plan to almost everything Jessup did. Bosch just had to figure out what it was.

“I’m finished with my homework,” Maddie said. “You want to watch Lost ?”

They had been slowly going through the DVDs of the television show, catching up on five years’ worth of episodes. The show was about several people who survived a plane crash on an uncharted island in the South Pacific. Bosch had trouble keeping track of things from show to show but watched because his daughter had been completely taken in by the story.

He had no time to watch television right now.

“Okay, one episode,” he said. “Then you have to go to bed and I have to get back to work.”

She smiled. This made her happy and for the moment Bosch’s grammatical and parental transgressions seemed forgotten.

“Set it up,” Bosch said. “And be prepared to remind me what’s happening.”

Five hours later, Bosch was on a jet that was shaking with wild turbulence. His daughter was sitting across the aisle from him rather than in the open seat next to him. They reached across the aisle to each other to hold hands but the bouncing of the plane kept knocking them apart. He couldn’t grab her hand.

Just as he turned in his seat to see the tail section break off and fall away, he was awakened by a buzzing sound. He reached to the bed table and grabbed his phone. He struggled to find his voice as he answered.

“This is Bosch.”

“This is Shipley, SIS. I was told to call.”

“Jessup’s at the park?”

“He’s in a park, yeah, but tonight it’s a different one.”

“Where?”

“Fryman Canyon off Mulholland.”

Bosch knew Fryman Canyon. It was about ten minutes away from Franklin Canyon.

“What’s he doing?”

“He’s just sort of walking on one of the trails. Just like at the other park. He walks the trail and then he sits down. He doesn’t do anything after that. He just sits for a while and then leaves.”

“Okay.”

Bosch looked at the glowing numbers on the clock. It was two o’clock exactly.

“Are you coming out?” Shipley asked.

Bosch thought about his daughter asleep in her bedroom. He knew he could leave and be back before she woke up.

“Uh… no, I have my daughter here and I can’t leave her.”

“Suit yourself.”

“When does your shift end?”

“About seven.”

“Can you call me then?”

“If you want.”

“I’d like you to call me every morning when you are getting off. To tell me where he’s been.”

“Uh… all right, I guess. Can I ask you something? This guy killed a girl, right?”

“That’s right.”

“And you’re sure about that? I mean, no doubt, right?”

Bosch thought about the interview with Sarah Gleason.

“I have no doubt.”

“Okay, well, that’s good to know.”

Bosch understood what he was saying. He was looking for assurance. If circumstances dictated the use of deadly force against Jessup, it was good to know who and what they would be shooting at. Nothing else needed to be said about it.

“Thanks, Shipley,” Bosch said. “I’ll talk to you later.”

Bosch disconnected and put his head back on the pillow. He remembered the dream about the plane. About reaching out to his daughter but being unable to grab her hand.

Wednesday, February 24, 8:15 A.M .

Judge Diane Breitman welcomed us into her chambers and offered a pot of coffee and a plate of shortbread cookies, an unusual move for a criminal courts judge. In attendance were myself and my second chair, Maggie McPherson, and Clive Royce, who was without his second but not without his temerity. He asked the judge if he could have hot tea instead.

“Well, this is nice,” the judge said once we were all seated in front of her desk, cups and saucers in hand. “I have not had the opportunity to see any of you practice in my courtroom. So I thought it would be good for us to start out a bit informally in chambers. We can always step out into the courtroom to go on the record if necessary.”

She smiled and none of the rest of us responded.

“Let me start by saying that I have a deep respect for the decorum of the courtroom,” Breitman continued. “And I insist that the lawyers who practice before me do as well. I am expecting this trial to be a spirited contest of the evidence and facts of the case. But I won’t stand for any acting out or crossing of the lines of courtesy and jurisprudence. I hope that is clearly understood.”

“Yes, Your Honor,” Maggie responded while Royce and I nodded.

“Good, now let’s talk about media coverage. The media is going to be hovering over this case like the helicopters that followed O.J. down the freeway. That is clearly a given. I have requests here from three local network affiliates, a documentary filmmaker and Dateline NBC . They all want to film the trial in its entirety. While I see no problem with that, as long as proper protections of the jury are put in place, my concern is in the extracurricular activity that is bound to occur outside the courtroom. Do any of you have any thoughts in this regard?”

I waited a beat and when no one spoke up, I did.

“Judge, I think because of the nature of this case-a retrial of a case twenty-four years old-there has already been too much media attention and we’re going to have a difficult time seating twelve people and two alternates who aren’t aware of the case through the filter of the media. I mean, we’ve had the accused surfing on the front page of the Times and sitting courtside at the Lakers. How are we going to get an impartial jury out of this? The media, with no lack of help from Mr. Royce, is presenting this guy as this poor, persecuted innocent man and they don’t have the slightest idea what the evidence is against him.”

“Your Honor, I object,” Royce said.

“You can’t object,” I said. “This isn’t a court hearing.”

“You used to be a defense attorney, Mick. Whatever happened to innocent until proven guilty?”

“He already has been.”

“In a trial the top court in this state termed a travesty. Is that what you want to stand on?”

“Listen, Clive, I’m an attorney and innocent until proven guilty is a measure you apply in court, not on Larry King Live. ”