Michael Connelly - The Reversal

I threw him the bone of calling him boss. Williams pressed his mouth into a tight line and stared at me for a long moment.

“Just so we understand each other,” he finally said.

I nodded.

“Yeah, I think we do.”

“Before you talk to the media about this case, you get it approved by my office first. Understand?”

“Got it.”

He turned and headed down the hall. His entourage followed. I remained in the hallway and watched them go. The truth was, there was nothing in the law that I objected to more than the death penalty. It was not that I had ever had a client executed or even tried such a case. It was simply a belief in the idea that an enlightened society did not kill its own.

But somehow that didn’t stop me from using the threat of the death penalty as an edge in the case. As I stood there alone in the hallway, I thought that maybe that made me a better prosecutor than I had imagined I could be.

Tuesday, February 16, 2:43 P.M .

It usually was the best moment of a case. The drive downtown with a suspect handcuffed in the backseat. There was nothing better. Sure there was the eventual payoff of a conviction down the line. Being in the courtroom when the verdict is read-watching the reality shock and then deaden the eyes of the convicted. But the drive in was always better, more immediate and personal. It was always the moment Bosch savored. The chase was over and the case was about to morph from the relentless momentum of the investigation to the measured pace of the prosecution.

But this time was different. It had been a long two days and Bosch wasn’t savoring anything. He and his partner, David Chu, had driven up to Corta Madera the day before, checking into a motel off the 101 and spending the night. In the morning they drove over to San Quentin, presented a court order that transferred custody of Jason Jessup to them, and then collected their prisoner for the drive back to Los Angeles. Seven hours each way with a partner who talked too much. Seven hours on the return with a suspect who didn’t talk enough.

They were now at the top of the San Fernando Valley and an hour from the City Jail in downtown L.A. Bosch’s back hurt from so many hours behind the wheel. His right calf muscle ached from applying pressure to the gas pedal. The city car did not have cruise control.

Chu had offered to drive but Bosch had said no. Chu religiously stuck to the speed limit, even on the freeway. Bosch would take the backache over an extra hour on the freeway and the anxiety it would create.

All of this aside, he drove in uneasy silence, brooding about a case that seemed to be proceeding backwards. He had been on it for only a few days, hadn’t had the opportunity to even become acquainted with all the facts, and here he was with the suspect hooked up and in the backseat. To Bosch it felt like the arrest was coming first and the investigation wouldn’t really start until after Jessup was booked.

He checked his watch and knew the scheduled press conference must be over by now. The plan was for him to meet with Haller and McPherson at four to continue kicking around the case. But by the time Jessup was booked he would be late. He also needed to go by LAPD archives to pick up two boxes that were waiting for him.

“Harry, what’s wrong?”

Bosch glanced at Chu.

“Nothing’s wrong.”

He wasn’t going to talk in front of the suspect. Besides, he and Chu had been partnered for less than a year. It was a little soon for Chu to be making reads off of Bosch’s demeanor. Harry didn’t want him to know that he had accurately deduced that he was uncomfortable.

Jessup spoke from the backseat, his first words since asking for a bathroom break outside of Stockton.

“What’s wrong is that he doesn’t have a case. What’s wrong is that he knows this whole thing is bullshit and he doesn’t want to be part of it.”

Bosch checked Jessup in the rearview mirror. He was slightly hunched forward because his hands were cuffed and locked to a chain that went to a set of shackles around his ankles. His head was shaved, a routine prison practice among men hoping to intimidate others. Bosch guessed that with Jessup it had probably worked.

“I thought you didn’t want to talk, Jessup. You invoked.”

“Yeah, that’s right. I’ll just shut the fuck up and wait for my lawyer.”

“He’s in San Francisco, I wouldn’t hold my breath.”

“He’s calling somebody. The GJP’s got people all over the country. We were ready for this.”

“Really? You were ready? You mean you packed your cell up because you thought you were being transferred? Or was it because you thought you were going home?”

Jessup didn’t have an answer for that one.

Bosch merged onto the 101, which would take them through the Cahuenga Pass and into Hollywood before they reached downtown.

“How’d you get hooked up with the Genetic Justice Project, Jessup?” he asked, trying once again to get something going. “You go to them or they come to you?”

“Website, man. I sent in my appeal and they saw the bullshit going on in my case. They took it over and here I am. You people are totally fucked if you think you’re going to win this. I was railroaded by you motherfuckers once before. Ain’t gonna happen again. In two months, this’ll all be over. I’ve been in twenty-four years. What’s two more months? Just makes my book rights more valuable. I guess I should be thanking you and the district attorney for that.”

Bosch glanced at the mirror again. Normally, he would love a talkative suspect. Most times they talked themselves right into prison. But Jessup was too smart and too cagey. He chose his words carefully, stayed away from talking about the crime itself, and wouldn’t be making a mistake that Bosch could use.

In the mirror now, Bosch could see Jessup staring out the window. No telling what he was thinking about. His eyes looked dead. Bosch could see the top of a prison ink tattoo on his neck, just breaking the collar line. It looked like part of a word but he couldn’t tell for sure.

“Welcome to L.A., Jessup,” Chu said without turning around. “Guess it’s been a while, huh?”

“Fuck you, you chink motherfucker,” Jessup retorted. “This’ll all be over soon and then I’ll be out and on the beach. I’m going to get a longboard and ride some tasty waves.”

“Don’t count on it, killer,” Chu said. “You’re going down. We got you by the balls.”

Bosch knew Chu was trying to provoke a response, a slip of the tongue. But he was coming off as an amateur and Jessup was too wise for him.

Harry grew tired of the back-and-forth, even after six hours of almost complete silence. He turned on the car’s radio and caught the tail end of a report on the DA’s press conference. He turned it up so Jessup would hear, and Chu would keep quiet.

“Williams and Haller refused to comment on the evidence but indicated they were not as impressed with the DNA analysis as the state’s supreme court was. Haller acknowledged that the DNA found on the victim’s dress did not come from Jessup. But he said the findings did not clear him of involvement in the crime. Haller is a well-known defense attorney and will be prosecuting a murder case for the first time. It did not sound this morning as though he has any hesitation. ‘We will once again be seeking the death penalty on this case.’ ”

Bosch flicked the volume down and checked the mirror. Jessup was still looking out the window.

“How about that, Jessup? He’s going for the Jesus juice.”

Jessup responded tiredly.

“Asshole’s posturing. Besides, they don’t execute anybody in this state anymore. You know what death row means? It means you get a cell all to yourself and you control what’s on the TV. It means better access to phone, food and visitors. Fuck it, I hope he does go for it, man. But it won’t matter. This is bullshit. This whole thing is bullshit. It’s all about the money.”