Майкл Коннелли - The Law of Innocence

There was no evasive action that I could take. My current bail restriction forbade me to leave the county, and the ankle-mounted monitor broadcast my location to authorities twenty-four hours a day. If they wanted me, they could surely find me. There was no escape.

But no one came knocking. No one came looking for me.

I spent Christmas Eve with my daughter and she went to her mother’s on Christmas Day. And I got an early dinner with her a week later before she went off with friends to celebrate the changing of the year. Kendall was with me the whole time and even told me on New Year’s Eve that she was having all her belongings shipped back from Hawaii.

All in all, it was a great month of freedom and work in preparation for the trial that lay ahead of me. But it would have been better if I hadn’t been looking over my shoulder the whole time. I began to think that I had been played, that Harry Bosch had been fed the false narrative of my re-arrest as the real payback. Dana Berg had made sure I would not be able to rest easy in my newfound freedom, and so she had the last laugh.

As far as the investigation into eavesdropping on privileged conversations at Twin Towers that Judge Warfield had promised, Berg escaped unscathed. The illegal activity was laid squarely at the door of the jail intelligence unit. A report that was leaked to the Los Angeles Times during the news-starved week after Christmas resulted in a New Year’s Day exclusive on the front page that concluded that deputies had been listening for years to privileged conversations, the contents of which were then used to create tip sheets from nonexistent jailhouse informants. These were then turned over to police and prosecutors. It was one more black eye for the sheriff’s jail division, which in the prior decade had been the target of multiple federal investigations. Horror stories had abounded of jail deputies staging gladiator fights, putting inmates in cells with enemies, using gang members to carry out punishment beatings and rapes of other prisoners. Indictments had come and heads had rolled. The elected sheriff at the time and his second-in-command had even gone to prison for turning a blind eye to the corruption.

Now the eavesdropping scandal promised more scrutiny and disgrace. Most likely the feds would be back in play and the new year was sure to bring a free-for-all for defense attorneys looking to overturn convictions in cases affected by the illegal activity.

This caused me to double down on my resolve not to be returned to Twin Towers. Every deputy in the jail would know that the latest scandal that had befallen them was caused by me. I could clearly imagine the retribution that would be awaiting me if I went back.

I finally got a call from Harry Bosch. I had not heard from him since well before Christmas despite leaving messages of holiday greetings and requests for updates on his part of the investigation. I knew that nothing had happened to him — my daughter had reported seeing him at his house when she visited her cousin Maddie over the break. And now, finally, he called. He appeared not to be aware of my efforts to contact him over the past weeks. He simply said he had something he wanted me to see. I was still at home, having a second cup of coffee with Kendall, and he agreed to swing by and pick me up.

We drove south in his old Jeep Cherokee, the one with the squared-off design and the twenty-five-year-old suspension. Shake, rattle, and roll: the car shook every time its tires hit a seam in the asphalt, rattled with every pothole, and threatened to roll on every left turn as the aging springs compressed and the car tilted to the right.

He kept KNX news on and had the uncanny ability to engage in conversation while still keeping an ear on the radio and from time to time throwing comments on the news of the day into the conversation. Even when I turned the volume knob down to respond, he would then turn it back up.

“So,” I said, once we were down out of the hills. “Where are we going?”

“It’s something I want you to see first,” Bosch said.

“It’s about Opparizio, I hope. I mean, you were working on him and then you disappear for like a month.”

“I didn’t disappear. I was working the case. I told you you’d hear from me when I had something and now I think I do.”

“Well, I hope it’s a connection to Sam Scales and the case. Otherwise you’ve been chasing a pipe dream.”

“You’ll know soon enough.”

“Can you at least tell me how far we’re going? So I can tell Lorna when I’ll be back.”

“T.I.”

“What? They’re not going to let me in with this thing on my ankle.”

“We’re not going to the prison. I just want to show you something.”

“And a photo wouldn’t do?”

“I don’t think so.”

We drove in silence for a while after that. Bosch took the 101 south into downtown and then jumped onto the 110, which would be a straight shot down to Terminal Island at the Port of Los Angeles. There was nothing awkward or uncomfortable about the stall in the conversation. We were half brothers and comfortable with the silences. Bosch listened to the news and I tuned it out with thoughts about the case. We were going to trial in under six weeks and I still had no grounds for a defense. Bosch may have gone silent but at least he had something he wanted me to see. My other investigator, Cisco, had been staying in close contact, but his efforts to background Sam Scales had so far been fruitless. I figured I was a week away from doing the unthinkable: throwing aside my right to a speedy trial and asking for time, for a continuance. But I worried that such a request would reveal too much. It would show desperation, panic, and maybe even signal guilt — I would be acting like someone delaying the inevitable.

“Where the hell is Wuhan?” Bosch said.

His words rescued me from the downward spiral of my thoughts.

“Who?” I asked.

He pointed to the radio.

“Not who,” he said. “It’s a place somewhere in China. Were you listening?”

“No, I was thinking,” I said. “What was it?”

“They’ve got a mystery virus over there, killing people.”

“Well, at least it’s there and not here.”

“Yeah, for how long?”

“You ever been over there, China?”

“Just to Hong Kong.”

“Oh, right... Maddie’s mom. Sorry I brought it up.”

“Long time ago.”

I attempted to change the subject.

“So, what’s Opparizio like?” I asked.

“What do you mean?” Bosch responded.

“Well, I just remember, when I had him on the stand nine years ago, he was restrained at first but then out came the animal. He wanted to jump out of that chair and tear my throat out or something. He seemed more Tony Soprano than Michael Corleone, if you know what I mean.”

“Well, so far I haven’t laid eyes on the guy. That’s not what I’ve been doing.”

I looked out the window and tried to blunt my shock and upset. I then turned back to engage.

“Harry, then what have you been doing?” I asked. “You had Opparizio, remember? You should’ve—”

“Hold on, hold on,” he said. “I know I have Opparizio but it wasn’t about putting eyes on him. This isn’t a surveillance job. It’s about finding out what he was doing and whether or not it somehow connects to Scales and you. And that’s what I’ve been doing.”

“Okay, then stop with the whole mystery trip thing. Where are we going?”

“Just take it easy. We’re almost there and you’ll be enlightened.”

“Really? ‘Enlightened’? Like divine intervention or something?”

“Not quite. But I think you’ll like it.”

He was right about one thing. We were almost there. I looked around to get my bearings and saw that we had crossed the 405 and were just a few miles from the end of the Harbor Freeway at Terminal Island. Through the windshield and to the left I could see the giant gantry cranes that loaded containers on and off cargo ships.