Майкл Коннелли - Law of Innocence

“Very well,” Warfield said. “The court is going to allow Mr. Haller to interview this witness. I will make the appropriate notification to the bail and detention folks, and, Mr. Haller, you need to be back in this county by midnight tonight or Ms. Berg’s prophecy will become true. You will be considered a fugitive. Is that understood?”

“Yes, Your Honor,” I said. “Thank you. And if I could make one other quick request?”

“Here we go,” Berg said.

“What is it, Mr. Haller?” Warfield asked.

“Your Honor, I have the ankle monitor and I’m sure that’s going to be a problem at the prison in Nevada,” I said.

“No way,” Berg jumped in forcefully. “You can’t be serious. We are not going to accept him taking off the monitor. The state—”

“I’m not asking for that,” I cut in. “I’m asking for a letter from the court that maybe Your Honor’s clerk could write up quickly and email me, explaining my standing—if it comes into question.”

There was a pause during which the judge was most likely waiting for Berg to object. But I thought the prosecutor probably believed she had overstepped with her loud objection to removal of the monitor. She had overplayed and now was silent.

“Very well,” Warfield said. “I will craft a note and have Andrew email it to you.”

“Thank you, Your Honor,” I said.

After the call, I contacted Bosch and told him I was coming. I told him to set up the appointment with Neiderland for 2 p.m. This would give me time to fly over and be driven up to the prison. I also told Bosch to keep an eye out.

“I had to give Neiderland’s name to the prosecution,” I said. “I doubt they’ll be able to get anybody out there before me. But they may try to fuck with us somehow.”

“I’ll stay right here,” Bosch said. “Look out for anything strange. Call when you’re getting close.”

A quick shower and shave later, I was in fresh travel clothes and ready to go. I downloaded and printed the letter from Judge Warfield and put it in my briefcase.

Kendall was awake and in the kitchen. There was a loud silence that she broke first.

“I’m sorry about last night,” she said. “I know you need to put everything you’ve got into your defense. I was being selfish.”

“No, I’m sorry,” I countered. “I was ignoring you and that should never be. I’ll do better. I promise.”

“The best thing you can do for me is win your case.”

“That’s the plan.”

We hugged it out, then I kissed her goodbye.

Bambadjan Bishop was sitting at the bottom of the stairs when I exited my house and locked the door behind me.

“Right on time,” I said. “I like that.”

“Where’re we going?” he asked.

“Burbank Airport. I’m flying to Vegas. Then you’re free until eight tonight, when I come back. I’ll need you to pick me up.”

“Got it.”

The JetSuite terminal was not on the commercial airfield at Burbank. It was hidden in a long line of private jet operators and hangars. The beauty of the little-known airline was that it operated like a private jet but provided commercial service. I got there fifteen minutes before my flight and it was no problem.

The sold-out flight carried thirty passengers into the air above the San Gabriel Mountains and then out over the Mojave Desert. I finally started to relax after the rush-rush morning.

I had a window seat and the woman next to me was wearing a surgical mask. I wondered if she was sick or trying to prevent becoming sick.

I turned and looked down on the vast nothingness below. The brown, sun-burned desert went in all directions as far as the eye could see. It made everything seem inconsequential. Including me.

23

Harry Bosch was waiting for me in front of the prison’s main entrance. He met me at the door of my ride as I got out. The sun was blistering and I had forgotten to bring sunglasses. I squinted at him.

“Can I let this guy go and you drive me back to the airport?” I asked. “Flight’s at seven.”

“Yeah, no problem,” he said.

I made sure I had my briefcase, then tipped the driver and sent him off.

Bosch and I started toward the prison entrance.

“You go through the doors and then there’s another door just for visiting attorneys. Head in through there and it should all be set. Neiderland is supposed to be in a room by two.”

“You can go through the attorney chute with me,” I said. “You’re—”

“No, I’m not going in with you. It’ll just be you and him—attorney-client.”

“That’s what I’m saying, you work for me as an investigator and that puts you under the privilege umbrella.”

“Yeah, but you’re about to go to work for him and I’m not working for that guy.”

“What are you talking about?”

“I pick my cases, Mick. I don’t work for criminals—that would undo everything I ever did in my career.”

I stopped and looked at him for a moment.

“I guess I should take that as a compliment,” I finally said.

“I told you at Dan Tana’s that I believe you,” he said. “I wouldn’t be here if I didn’t.”

I turned and looked up at the prison.

“Well, okay, then,” I said.

“I’ll be out here,” Bosch said. “You get a name from him, I’ll be ready to go to work on it.”

“I’ll let you know.”

“Good luck.”

I didn’t get into a room with Neiderland until forty minutes later. The ankle monitor set off alarms with the jail staff as I had thought it might. The letter from Judge Warfield was deemed not good enough because it could have been forged. Somebody called the judge’s office to confirm that she had granted permission for me to travel to Nevada but was told the judge was currently on the bench. It wasn’t until Warfield took the midafternoon break and returned the call from chambers that I was led to the attorney-client interview room. I was running a half hour late and Neiderland looked angry when I arrived.

He sat in a chair across a bolted-down table from another chair. His hands were cuffed and a lead chain ran from his wrists to a ring bolted to the front of his chair, which in turn was bolted to the floor. Still, he tried to stand and yanked hard against the chain as I slid into my seat.

“Mr. Neiderland, I’m Michael Haller,” I began. “I’m sorry—”

“I know who the fuck you are,” he said.

“You told my—”

“Fuck you.”

“Excuse me?”

“Get the fuck out of here.”

“I just flew here from L.A. because you told my—”

“Don’t you fucking get it?”

He yanked his cuffed hands up until the lead chain snapped taut again. His hands were gripped as if around an imaginary neck. My neck.

“They didn’t used to do this,” he said. “Chain you down like this. Not with your lawyer. I didn’t know. I didn’t fucking know. You should be dead by now, motherfucker.”

“What are you talking about?” I asked. “Why would I be dead?”

“Because I would’ve broken your fucking neck.”

He pushed his words through gritted teeth. He wasn’t a big man or heavily muscled. He had thin blond hair and a sallow complexion—no surprise considering his current address. But the look of sheer hatred on his face was downright scary. My first thought was that somehow there had been a setup and he was working for Louis Opparizio—a hit man in an elaborate scheme to take me out. But then I dismissed it. The circumstances of my visit defied such a plan. And there was clearly emotion behind the hate on Neiderland’s face.

“You were going to kill me,” I said. “Why?”

“Because you killed my friend,” he said, again through clenched teeth.