Майкл Коннелли - The Law of Innocence

Jennifer had not heard the updates and asked a few questions to catch up.

“Is there any confirmation beyond his dirty fingernails that Sam Scales was somehow involved with BioGreen?” she asked.

“Well, not under that name,” Bosch said. “I dummied in a call to check on employment for a car loan and they said they had no record of a Sam Scales working there now or ever.”

“What about the FBI?” Jennifer asked. “Do we know what they’re up to?”

“Not yet,” Bosch said. “I didn’t think we wanted to take a head-on approach to that question, so I’m sort of sniffing around the edges while trying to get a line on Scales.”

“I followed a tanker truck out of there Friday afternoon,” Cisco added. “For the hell of it. Just wanted to see where it went. But he went through a security gate at the port and I had to hold back. About a half hour later, he comes driving out and goes back to the refinery. I think he either picked up or dropped off a load.”

“Are we thinking Sam Scales was driving a truck?” Jennifer said. “What’s the scam in that?”

“Maybe he went straight,” Cisco said.

“No,” I said. “I knew Sam. He was never going to go straight. He was up to something and we still need to find it.”

There was silence for a few moments while I thought about what Bosch had said. I had spent the entirety of my career laboring in state courts and had few interactions with FBI agents or the federal government. Though Bosch had once been married to an FBI agent, I knew he had a history of antagonism when it came to his federal counterparts. The rest of my team were also outsiders when it came to the feds.

“We’ve got trial in a month,” I said. “What do you think about switching to a head-on approach to the bureau instead of sniffing around the edges?”

“We can do that,” Bosch said. “But you have to remember, the feds only respond to threat. Threat of exposure. Whatever they’ve got going down there, they want to keep it quiet and they’ll only take you seriously if they see you as endangering their secrecy or their investigation. That’s what a head-on approach is. You make yourself a threat. That’s how we always did it at the LAPD.”

I nodded and thought about that. Monica, one of the owners of the Nickel, brought over a variety plate of doughnuts to go with the pancakes and eggs we had already eaten. Jennifer, the only one who hadn’t had breakfast yet, reached for the chocolate-frosted entry.

“Anyone want to share this?” she asked.

There were no takers. Jennifer continued.

“I was going to say we should file a Freedom of Information Act request,” she said. “But those take forever. They probably wouldn’t even acknowledge receipt until after your trial.”

I nodded in agreement and then changed my mind.

“We could do that but then back it up with a subpoena requesting files on Scales,” I said.

“The FBI can ignore a subpoena,” Jennifer countered. “They don’t have to answer questions about federal investigations in state court.”

“Doesn’t matter,” I said. “Just delivering the subpoena would be the threat Harry’s talking about. They would be on notice that this is coming up at my trial. It might bring them out of the shadows. Then we see what we can get.”

I looked at Bosch for confirmation. He nodded.

“It could work,” he said.

“Let’s do it,” Jennifer said.

“Jennifer, I know I’m putting everything on your plate,” I said. “But can you add the subpoena and FOIA request?”

“No problem,” she said. “The FOIA’s probably an online request. It’ll be done by the end of the day. I’ll work on the subpoena first. What are the parameters?”

“Sam Scales and any and all aliases,” I said. “Then include Louis Opparizio and BioGreen Industries. Anything else?”

Jennifer received a call on her cell and got up from the table to take it outside. The rest of us continued to talk through the subpoena idea.

“Even if it does bring them out, I’m not sure what you’ll get,” Bosch said. “You know what they say: the FBI doesn’t share. It eats like an elephant and shits like a mouse.”

Lorna laughed. It made me realize that Cisco had been silent through the whole discussion.

“Cisco, what do you think?” I asked.

“I think another way to get information about that place is for me to go down there and ask if they’re hiring,” Cisco said. “Maybe I get inside there and see what’s going on — even if they don’t hire me.”

“Put a hard hat on, and you look the part,” I said with a smile. “But no. If they’re running a con, they’d do a deep dive checking you out, and your name would connect to mine. I think I’d rather have you working with the Indians on Opparizio.”

Cisco called the men on his surveillance team the Indians. Political correctness aside, he likened them to the Indians in the old westerns who watched the wagon trains from the cliffs without the settlers having any clue.

“Well, ready to go if you need it,” Cisco said. “Surveillance gets a bit boring, you know?”

“Then I’ll tell you what,” I said. “If you are okay leaving your team on Opparizio and Ferrigno, why don’t you spend a couple days on Milton, the cop who pulled me over.”

Cisco nodded.

“I could do that,” he said.

“I still don’t buy his story,” I said. “If he was doing somebody’s bidding, I want to know whose and why.”

“On it,” Cisco said.

“What about me, Mickey?” Lorna said. “What do you need from me?”

I had to think fast about that. Lorna wouldn’t want to be left out of the case.

“Uh, go back into our files on Trammel,” I said. “Pull out anything that has to do with our background work on Opparizio. I don’t remember everything, and I have to be ready to go at him again — if we ever find him.”

Jennifer came back to the table from her call but didn’t sit down. She looked at me and held up her phone.

“We’re on,” she said. “Warfield set a hearing on the motion to compel for one o’clock today. She told Berg to bring her lead investigator too.”

I was surprised.

“That was quick,” I said. “We must’ve struck a nerve.”

“That was Andrew, Warfield’s clerk,” Jennifer said. “We definitely struck a nerve with the prosecution. He said Death Row Dana got mad as hell when he called her.”

“Good,” I said. “That’ll make it interesting. We’re going to put her lead detective on the stand before she does.”

I checked my watch and then looked at Lorna.

“Lorna, how long would it take to get a couple blowups off crime scene photos?” I asked.

“Give them to me now and I’ll put a rush on them,” she said. “You want them mounted on a hard back?”

“If we can,” I said. “More important just to have them for the hearing.”

I pushed my empty plate back and opened my laptop on the table. I pulled up the two crime scene photos I planned to display at the afternoon’s hearing: two different shots of Sam Scales in the trunk of my Lincoln. I sent them to Lorna and warned her that they were graphic. It wasn’t her delicate sensibilities I was trying to protect. It was the photo technician at the FedEx store that I wanted her to warn.

It felt good to enter Judge Warfield’s courtroom through the public entrance rather than the steel door from the holding cell. But at the same time, the “free man’s” entrance put me in a heavy confluence of post-lunch returnees to the courthouse, including Dana Berg, who mad-dogged me on the elevator like an OG from lockdown. I ignored it and saved my own enmity for court. I held the door for her but she declined to say thanks.