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Authors: Michael Connelly
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I held it between my fingers and draped my hand over the steering wheel. I held the card up and looked at it again. I figured it wouldn’t hurt to get a line on inside information on the case.
“Okay, deal.”
I signaled him away again and pulled the door closed, then started the car. He was still there. I lowered the window.
“What?” I asked.
“Just remember, I don’t want to see your name in the other papers or on the TV saying stuff I don’t have.”
“Don’t worry. I know how it works.”
“Good.”
I dropped it into reverse but thought of something and kept my foot on the brake.
“Let me ask you a question. How tight are you with Bosch, the lead investigator on the case?”
“I know him, but nobody’s really tight with him. Not even his own partner.”
“What’s his story?”
“I don’t know. I never asked.”
“Well, is he any good at it?”
“At clearing cases? Yes, he’s very good. I think he’s considered one of the best.”
I nodded and thought about Bosch. The man on a mission.
“Watch your toes.”
I backed the Lincoln out. McEvoy called out to me just as I put the car in drive.
“Hey, Haller, love the plate.”
I waved a hand out the window as I drove down the ramp. I tried to remember which of my Lincolns I was driving and what the plate said. I have a fleet of three Town Cars left over from my days when I carried a full case load. But I had been using the cars so infrequently in the last year that I had put all three into a rotation to keep the engines in tune and the dust out of the pipes. Part of my comeback strategy, I guess. The cars were exact duplicates, except for the license plates, and I wasn’t sure which one I was driving.
When I got down to the parking attendant’s booth and handed in my stub, I saw a small video screen next to the cash register. It showed the view from a camera located a few feet behind my car. It was the camera Cisco had told me about, designed to pick up an angle on the rear bumper and license plate.
On the screen I could see my vanity plate.
IWALKEM
I smirked. I walk ’em, all right. I was heading to court to meet one of Jerry Vincent’s clients for the first time. I was going to shake his hand and then walk him right into prison.
Nine
J udge Judith Champagne was on the bench and hearing motions when I walked into her courtroom with five minutes to spare. There were eight other lawyers cooling their heels, waiting their turn. I parked my roller bag against the rail and whispered to the courtroom deputy, explaining that I was there to handle the sentencing of Edgar Reese for Jerry Vincent. He told me the judge’s motions calendar was running long but Reese would be first out for his sentencing as soon as the motions were cleared. I asked if I could see Reese, and the deputy got up and led me through the steel door behind his desk to the court-side holding cell. There were three prisoners in the cell.
“Edgar Reese?” I said.
A small, powerfully built white man came over to the bars. I saw prison tattoos climbing up his neck and felt relieved. Reese was heading back to a place he already knew. I wasn’t going to be holding the hand of a wide-eyed prison virgin. It would make things easier for me.
“My name’s Michael Haller. I’m filling in for your attorney today.”
I didn’t think there was much point in explaining to this guy what had happened to Vincent. It would only make Reese ask me a bunch of questions I didn’t have the time or knowledge to answer.
“Where’s Jerry?” Reese asked.
“Couldn’t make it. You ready to do this?”
“Like I got a choice?”
“Did Jerry go over the sentence when you pled out?”
“Yeah, he told me. Five years in state, out in three if I behave.”
It was more like four but I wasn’t going to mess with it.
“Okay, well, the judge is finishing some stuff up out there and then they’ll bring you out. The prosecutor will read you a bunch of legalese, you answer
“Okay, deal.”
I signaled him away again and pulled the door closed, then started the car. He was still there. I lowered the window.
“What?” I asked.
“Just remember, I don’t want to see your name in the other papers or on the TV saying stuff I don’t have.”
“Don’t worry. I know how it works.”
“Good.”
I dropped it into reverse but thought of something and kept my foot on the brake.
“Let me ask you a question. How tight are you with Bosch, the lead investigator on the case?”
“I know him, but nobody’s really tight with him. Not even his own partner.”
“What’s his story?”
“I don’t know. I never asked.”
“Well, is he any good at it?”
“At clearing cases? Yes, he’s very good. I think he’s considered one of the best.”
I nodded and thought about Bosch. The man on a mission.
“Watch your toes.”
I backed the Lincoln out. McEvoy called out to me just as I put the car in drive.
“Hey, Haller, love the plate.”
I waved a hand out the window as I drove down the ramp. I tried to remember which of my Lincolns I was driving and what the plate said. I have a fleet of three Town Cars left over from my days when I carried a full case load. But I had been using the cars so infrequently in the last year that I had put all three into a rotation to keep the engines in tune and the dust out of the pipes. Part of my comeback strategy, I guess. The cars were exact duplicates, except for the license plates, and I wasn’t sure which one I was driving.
When I got down to the parking attendant’s booth and handed in my stub, I saw a small video screen next to the cash register. It showed the view from a camera located a few feet behind my car. It was the camera Cisco had told me about, designed to pick up an angle on the rear bumper and license plate.
On the screen I could see my vanity plate.
IWALKEM
I smirked. I walk ’em, all right. I was heading to court to meet one of Jerry Vincent’s clients for the first time. I was going to shake his hand and then walk him right into prison.
Nine
J udge Judith Champagne was on the bench and hearing motions when I walked into her courtroom with five minutes to spare. There were eight other lawyers cooling their heels, waiting their turn. I parked my roller bag against the rail and whispered to the courtroom deputy, explaining that I was there to handle the sentencing of Edgar Reese for Jerry Vincent. He told me the judge’s motions calendar was running long but Reese would be first out for his sentencing as soon as the motions were cleared. I asked if I could see Reese, and the deputy got up and led me through the steel door behind his desk to the court-side holding cell. There were three prisoners in the cell.
“Edgar Reese?” I said.
A small, powerfully built white man came over to the bars. I saw prison tattoos climbing up his neck and felt relieved. Reese was heading back to a place he already knew. I wasn’t going to be holding the hand of a wide-eyed prison virgin. It would make things easier for me.
“My name’s Michael Haller. I’m filling in for your attorney today.”
I didn’t think there was much point in explaining to this guy what had happened to Vincent. It would only make Reese ask me a bunch of questions I didn’t have the time or knowledge to answer.
“Where’s Jerry?” Reese asked.
“Couldn’t make it. You ready to do this?”
“Like I got a choice?”
“Did Jerry go over the sentence when you pled out?”
“Yeah, he told me. Five years in state, out in three if I behave.”
It was more like four but I wasn’t going to mess with it.
“Okay, well, the judge is finishing some stuff up out there and then they’ll bring you out. The prosecutor will read you a bunch of legalese, you answer
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