Майкл Коннелли - The Law of Innocence

“We are thirteen days from jury selection,” she said. “I am setting a hearing for next Thursday at ten a.m. for final motions. I want to handle everything on that day. That means, get your paperwork in with enough time for the court to consider it. I want no surprises. I will see you all then.”

The judge adjourned court and I felt the dread of incarceration return before Deputy Chan and his cohorts could even get to me.

Upon my second arrest I was placed back in a single-bed cell at Twin Towers. This time I had even graduated to the outside wall of the jail, which gave me a window — only four inches wide and escape-proof, but it had a partial view of the Criminal Courts Building just a few blocks away as the crow flies. It was enough of a view for me to want to stay in the cell with my eyes on the prize rather than congregate in the dayroom with the other keep-aways. And this, even though I had replaced Bishop with Carew.

So I was feeling safe and secure in the module. The problem was that there were no such protections on the jail buses that moved hundreds of inmates to and from court each day. Whom you rode with and whom you were chained to was mostly a matter of chance. Or so it appeared. No matter what measure I took to protect myself in custody, I was always going to be most vulnerable on the bus. I knew this for a fact because I’d had clients attacked on the buses. And I had seen fights break out and attacks staged while riding them myself.

After the hearing on the prosecution’s motion for sanctions, I waited two hours in the courthouse jail before being shuttled onto a bus back to the Towers. I was cuffed fourth on a chain behind three other men and moved onto the bus. We were put into the second-to-last compartment and I was seated against the barred window in the forward-facing bench. The deputy checked us, closed the gate and locked it, and proceeded to fill the next compartment. I leaned forward to look across the man next to me to the prisoner seated on my row against the opposite window. I recognized him but not from the keep-away module. I couldn’t place him. It could have been from court or a potential client meeting in which I didn’t take the case. He was checking me out as I was checking him. And that fired my paranoia. I knew I had to keep a watch on him.

The bus exited the garage beneath the courts building and trundled up the steep grade to Spring Street. As it turned left, City Hall was on the right side, and several prisoners followed the tradition of flipping the finger at the seat of power. This of course could not be seen by anyone on the marble steps or behind the windows of the iconic building. The bus’s “windows” were actually slotted metal that allowed a confined view out but no view in.

I watched the man I was curious about hold his hand up and extend the fuck-you finger. He did it so routinely, without even looking out through the slots himself, that I knew he was a regular guest of the system. And that was when I recognized him. He was the client of a colleague whom I had once filled in for during a hearing before a judge. It had been a babysitting job, a minor hearing that involved a court appearance. Dan Daly had been stuck in a trial and asked me to handle it and I did.

Satisfied that I had answered the question and that the man posed no special threat, I relaxed and leaned back in my seat, tilting my head up to look at the ceiling. I started counting the days until the start of my trial and how soon I could reasonably expect to walk free after a not-guilty verdict.

It was the last thing I remembered.

Thursday, February 6

I could only open my eyes to narrow slices of light. It wasn’t the harshness of the light that prevented me from opening them wider. It was physical impediment. I simply could not do it.

I was disoriented at first, not sure where I was.

“Mickey?”

I turned at the voice, recognized it. “Jennifer?”

The one word set fire to my throat, the pain so sharp I grimaced.

“Yes, I’m here. How do you feel?”

“I can’t see. What—”

“Your eyes are swollen. You burst a lot of blood vessels.”

I burst blood vessels? This didn’t make sense.

“What do you mean?” I asked. “How did I — ahh, it hurts to talk.”

“Don’t talk,” Jennifer said. “Just listen. We went over this an hour ago and then the sedation hit and you went out again. You were attacked, Mickey. On the jail bus after court yesterday.”

“Yesterday?”

“Don’t talk. Yes, you’ve lost a day. But if you can stay awake, I can get them in here to do the testing. They need to check your brain function to see if there was anything... so we’ll know if there is any... anything permanent.”

“What happened on the bus?”

The pain.

“I don’t know all the details and the sheriff’s investigator wants to talk to you about it — he’s waiting outside but I told him I was going to talk to you first. Basically, another man on the bus got his chain free and used it to choke you. He was behind you and wrapped it around your neck. They thought you were dead but paramedics revived you, Mickey. They say it’s a miracle you’re alive.”

“It doesn’t feel like a miracle. Where am I?”

I was beginning to be able to manage the pain. Talking in a monotone, turning my head slightly to the left seemed to lessen it.

“County-USC — the jail ward. Hayley and Lorna and everybody wanted to come in to see you but you’re on lockdown and they’d only let me in. I don’t think you want them seeing you like this anyway. Better to wait till the swelling goes down.”

I felt her hand grip my shoulder.

“Are we alone in here?” I asked.

“Yes,” Jennifer said. “This is an attorney-client meeting. There’s a deputy outside the door but it’s closed. Also, the investigator’s out there, waiting to talk to you.”

“Okay, listen, don’t let them use this to delay the trial.”

“Well, we’ll see, Mickey. You need to be tested to make sure you—”

“No, I’m fine, I can tell. I’m already thinking about the case and I don’t want to delay it. We have them where we want them and I don’t want to give them time to catch up to us. That’s it.”

“Okay, I’ll object if they try.”

“Who was the guy?”

“What guy?”

“The one who choked me with the chain.”

“I don’t know, I only got his name. Mason Maddox. Lorna put it through the conflict-of-interest app, and there were no hits. You have no prior history with him. He was convicted last month of three murders — I haven’t gotten the case details yet. He was in court for a motions hearing.”

“Who’s his lawyer? The PD?”

“I don’t have that information yet.”

“Why’d he do it? Who put him up to it?”

“If the Sheriff’s Department knows, they’re not sharing it with me. I have Cisco looking into it and a call in to Harry Bosch.”

“I don’t want to pull Cisco off trial prep. That could be the whole motive behind it.”

“No, because he tried to kill you and probably thought he did. You don’t kill a guy to distract his investigators. I filed a motion with Warfield today asking her to issue an order reinstituting bail or ordering the sheriff to transport you by car to and from court. No more buses. Too dangerous.”

“That’s good thinking.”

“I hope to get a hearing on it this afternoon. We’ll see.”

“Is there like a hand mirror around here or something?”

“Why?”

“I want to see myself.”

“Mickey, I don’t think you—”

“It’s all right. I just want to take a quick look and I’ll be fine.”