Michael Connelly

The Burning Room 

One

It seemed to Bosch to be a form of torture heaped upon torture. Corazon was hunched over the steel table, her bloody and gloved hands deep inside the gutted torso, working with forceps and a long bladed instrument she called the butter knife. Corazon was not tall and she stood on her tiptoes to be able to reach down and in with her tools. She braced her hip against the side of the autopsy table to gain leverage.

What bothered Bosch about the grisly tableau was that the body had already been so violated for so long. Both legs gone, one arm taken at the shoulder, the surgical scars old but somehow raw and red. The man’s mouth was open in a silent scream. His eyes were directed upward as if beseeching his God for mercy. Deep down Bosch knew that the dead were the dead and they no longer suffered the cruelties of life, but even so, he felt like saying, Enough is enough. Asking, When does it stop? Shouldn’t death be the relief from the tortures of life?

But he didn’t say anything. He stood mute and just watched like he had hundreds of times before. More important than his outrage and the desire to speak out against the continuing atrocity inflicted on Orlando Merced was Bosch’s need for the bullet Corazon was trying to pry loose from the dead man’s spine.

Corazon dropped back on her heels to rest. She blew out her breath and temporarily fogged her spatter shield. She glanced at Bosch through the steamed plastic.

“Almost there,” she said. “And I’ll tell you what, they were right not to try to take it out back then. They would have had to saw entirely through T-twelve.”

Bosch just nodded, knowing she was referring to one of the vertebrae.

She turned to the table, where her instruments were spread out.

“I need something else…,” she said.

She put the butter knife in a stainless-steel sink, where a running faucet kept the water level to the overflow drain. She then moved her hand to the left of the sink and across the display of sterilized tools until she chose a long, slender pick. She went back to work with her hands in the hollow of the victim’s torso. All the organs and intestines had been removed, weighed, and bagged, leaving just the husk formed by the upturned ribs. She went up on her toes again and used her upper-body strength and the steel pick to finally pop the bullet loose from the spinal column. Bosch heard it rattle loose inside the rib cage.

“Got it!”

She pulled her arms out of the hollow, put down the pick, and sprayed the forceps with the hose attached to the table. She then held the instrument up to examine her find. She tapped the floor button for the recorder with her foot and went on the record.

“A projectile appearing to be a large-caliber bullet was removed from the anterior T-twelve vertebrae. It is in damaged condition with severe flattening. I will mark with my initials and turn over to Detective Hieronymus Bosch with the Open-Unsolved Unit of the Los Angeles Police Department.”

She tapped the recorder button with her foot again and they were off the record. She smiled at him through her plastic screen.

“Sorry, Harry, you know me, a stickler for formalities.”

“I didn’t think you’d even remember.”

He and Corazon had once had a brief romance but that was a long time ago and very few people knew his real full name.

“Of course I would,” she said in mock protest.

There was almost an aura of humility about Teresa Corazon that had not been there in the past. She had been a climber and had eventually gotten what she wanted—the chief medical examiner’s post and all of its trappings, including a reality television show. But when one reaches the top of a public agency, one becomes a politician, and politicians fall out of favor. Teresa eventually fell hard and now she was back where she started, a deputy coroner with a caseload like anyone else in the office. At least they had let her keep her private autopsy suite. For now.

She took the bullet over to the counter, where she marked it with an indelible black pen. Bosch was ready with a small plastic evidence bag and she dropped it in. He then marked the bag with both of their initials, a chain-of-custody routine. He noted the heft of the slug. He believed it had come from a rifle. If so, that would be a significant new piece of information in the case.

“Will you stay for the rest, or was that all you wanted?”

She asked it as if there were something else going on between them. He held up the evidence bag.

“I think I should probably get this going. We’ve got a lot of eyes on this case.”

“Right. Well, then, I’ll just finish up by myself. What happened to your partner anyway? Wasn’t she here with you in the hall?”

“She had to make a call.”

“Oh, I thought maybe she wanted us to have some alone time. Did you tell her about us?”

She smiled and batted her eyes and Bosch looked away awkwardly.

“No, Teresa. You know I don’t talk about stuff like that.”

She nodded.

“You never did. You’re a man who keeps his secrets.”

He looked back at her.

“I try,” he said. “Besides, that was a long time ago.”

“And the flame’s gone out, hasn’t it?”

He pushed things back on subject.

“On the cause. You’re not seeing anything different from what the hospital is reporting, right?”

Corazon shook her head, able to move back as well.

“No, nothing different here. Sepsis. Blood poisoning, to use the more common phrase. Put that in your press release.”

“And you have no trouble linking this back to the shooting? You could testify to that?”

She was nodding before Bosch was finished speaking.

“Mr. Merced died because of blood poisoning, but I am listing cause of death as homicide. This was a ten-year murder, Harry, and I will gladly testify to that. I hope that bullet helps you find the killer.”

Bosch nodded and closed his hand around the plastic bag containing the bullet.

“I hope so too,” he said.

Two

Bosch took the elevator up to the ground floor. In the past few years the county had spent thirty million dollars renovating the coroner’s office but the elevators moved just as slowly as ever. He found Lucia Soto on the back loading dock, leaning against an empty gurney and looking at her phone. She glanced up as Bosch approached and then stood up hurriedly like a kid who’d been caught doing something wrong.

“Got it,” Bosch said.

He held up the evidence bag containing the bullet. Soto took it and studied the bullet through the plastic for a moment. A couple of body movers came up behind her and pulled the empty gurney toward the door of what was known as the Big Crypt. It was a new addition to the complex, a refrigerated space the size of a Mayfair Market where all of the bodies that came in were staged before being scheduled for autopsy.

“It’s big,” Soto said.

Bosch nodded.

“I’m thinking we’re looking for a rifle,” he said.

“It looks like it’s in pretty bad shape,” Soto said. “Mushroomed.”

She handed the bag back and Bosch put it in his coat pocket.

“There’s enough there for a comparison, I think,” he said. “Enough for us to get lucky.”

The men behind Soto opened the door of the Big Crypt to wheel the gurney in. Cold air carrying a disagreeable chemical scent blasted across the loading dock. Soto turned in time to see a glimpse of the giant refrigerated room. Row after row of bodies stacked four high on a stainless-steel scaffolding system. The dead were wrapped in opaque plastic sheeting, their feet exposed, toe tags flapping in the breeze from the refrigeration vents.

Soto quickly turned away, her naturally brown face turning white.

“You okay?” Bosch asked.

“Yes, fine,” she said quickly. “That just grosses me out.”

“It’s actually a big improvement. The bodies used to be lined up in the hallways. Sometimes stacked on top of one another after a busy weekend. It got pretty ripe around here.”

She held a hand up to stop him from further description.

“Please, are we done?”

“We’re done.”

He started moving and Soto followed, falling in a step behind him. She tended to walk behind Bosch, and he didn’t know if it was some sort of deferential thing to his age and rank or something else, like a confidence issue. He headed to the steps at the end of the dock. It was a shortcut to the visitor parking lot.

“Where do we go?” she asked.

“We get the slug over to firearms,” Bosch said. “Speaking of getting lucky—it’s walk-in Wednesday. Then we go pick up the murder book and evidence at Hollenbeck. We take it from there.”

“Okay.”

They went down the steps and started crossing the employee parking lot. The visitor lot was on the side of the building.

“Did you make your call?” Bosch asked.

“What?” Soto asked, confused.

“You said you had to make a call.”

“Oh, yes, I did. Sorry about that.”

“No problem. You get what you need?”

“Yes, thanks.”

Bosch was guessing that there had been no call. He suspected that Soto wanted to skip out on the autopsy because she had never seen a human body hollowed out before. Soto was new not only to the Open-Unsolved Unit but to homicide work as well. This was the third case she had worked with Bosch and the only one with a death fresh enough for an autopsy. Soto probably hadn’t been counting on live autopsies when she signed up to work cold cases.

In recent years the crime rate in Los Angeles had decreased markedly across the board, including and most dramatically in the number of homicides. This had spurred a shift within the LAPD’s investigative philosophy and practice. With fewer active murder cases, the department increased its emphasis on clearing cold cases. With more than five thousand unsolved murders on the books in the past fifty years, there was plenty of work to go around. The Open-Unsolved Unit had nearly tripled in size over the course of the previous year and now had its own command staff, including a captain and two lieutenants. Many seasoned detectives were brought in from Homicide Special and other elite units within the Robbery-Homicide Division. Also a class of young detectives with little if any investigative experience was brought in. The philosophy and edict handed down from the tenth-floor OCP—Office of the Chief of Police—was that it was a new world out there, with new technologies and new ways to look at things. While nothing beats investigative experience, there is nothing wrong with combining it with new viewpoints and different life experiences.

These new detectives—the “Mod Squad,” as they were derisively called by some—got the choice assignment to the Open-Unsolved Unit for a variety of reasons ranging from political connections to particular acumen and skills to rewards for heroism in the line of duty. One of the new detectives had worked in IT for a hospital chain before becoming a cop and was instrumental in solving the murder of a patient through a computerized prescription delivery system. Another had studied chemistry as a Rhodes Scholar. There was even a detective who was formerly an investigator with the Haitian National Police.

Soto was only twenty-eight years old and had been on the force fewer than five years. She made the jump from a one-stripe patrol officer to detective by being a twofer. She was second-generation Mexican-American and spoke both English and Spanish fluently. That fit nicely with the new philosophy of the OCP. But she also punched a more traditional ticket to the detective ranks when she became an overnight media sensation after a deadly shoot-out with armed robbers at a check-cashing store in Pico-Union. She and her partner engaged four gunmen. Her partner was fatally shot but Soto took down two of the robbers and held the second pair pinned in an alley until SWAT arrived and finished the capture. The gunmen were members of 13th Street, one of the most violent gangs operating in the city, and Soto’s heroics were splashed across newspapers, websites, and television screens. She was later awarded the department’s Medal of Valor. Her partner received the award as well, posthumously.

Captain Greg Malins, the new commander of the Open-Unsolved Unit, decided the best way to handle the influx of new blood into the unit was to split up all the existing partnerships and pair every detective who had OU experience with a new detective who had none. Bosch was the oldest man in the unit and had the most years on the job. As such he was paired with the youngest—Soto.

“Harry, you’re the old pro,” Malins had explained. “I want you watching over the rookie.”

While Bosch didn’t particularly care to be reminded of his age and standing, he was nonetheless happy with the assignment. He was entering what would be his last year with the department, as the clock was ticking on his DROP contract. To him, every day he had left on the job was golden. The hours were like diamonds—as valuable as anything on earth. He thought that it might be a good way to finish things, training an inexperienced detective and passing on whatever it was he had to pass on. When Malins told him his new partner would be Lucia Soto, Bosch was pleased. Like everybody else in the department, he had heard of Soto’s exploits in the shoot-out. Bosch knew what it was like to kill someone in the line of duty, as well as to lose a partner. He understood the mixture of grief and guilt that would afflict Soto. He thought that he and Soto could work well together and that he might train her to be a solid investigator.

There was also a nice bonus for Bosch in being teamed with Soto. Because she was a female, he would not have to share a hotel room when on the road on a case. They would get their own rooms. This was a big thing. The travel component to a job on the cold case squad was high. Oftentimes those who think they have gotten away with murder leave town, hoping that by putting physical distance between themselves and their crimes, they are also outdistancing the reach of the police. Now Bosch looked forward to finishing his time in the department without having to share a bathroom or put up with the snoring or other emissions from a partner in a cramped double at a Holiday Inn.

Soto might not have been hesitant when pulling her gun while outnumbered in a barrio alley, but watching a live autopsy was something different. Soto had seemed reluctant that morning when Bosch told her they had caught a live one and had to go to the ME’s office for an autopsy. Soto’s first question was whether it was required that both partners in an investigative team attend the dissection of the body. With most cold cases, the body was long in the ground and the only dissection involved was the analysis of old records and evidence. Open-Unsolved allowed Soto to work the most important cases—murders—without having to view a live autopsy, or for that matter, a homicide scene.

Or so it seemed until that morning, when Bosch got the call at home from Malins.

The captain asked Bosch if he had read the Los Angeles Times that morning and Bosch said he didn’t get the paper. This was in keeping with the long-standing tradition of disdain that existed between the two institutions of law enforcement and the media.

The captain then proceeded to tell him about a story on the front page that morning that was the origin of a new assignment for Bosch and Soto. As Bosch listened, he opened his laptop and went to the newspaper’s website, where the story was similarly receiving a lot of play.

The newspaper was reporting that Orlando Merced had died. Ten years earlier, Merced became famous in Los Angeles as a victim—the unintended target of a shooting at Mariachi Plaza in Boyle Heights. The bullet that struck Merced in the abdomen had traveled across the plaza from the vicinity of Pleasant Avenue and was thought to have been a stray shot from a gang confrontation.

The shooting occurred at 4 p.m. on a Saturday. Merced was thirty-one years old at the time and a member of a mariachi band for which he played the vihuela, the five-string guitarlike instrument that is the mainstay of the traditional Mexican folk sound. He and his three bandmates were among several mariachis waiting in the plaza for jobs—a restaurant gig or a quinceañera party or maybe a last-minute wedding. Merced was a large man, thick in the middle, and the bullet that seemingly came from nowhere splintered the mahogany facing of his instrument and then tore through his gut before lodging in his anterior spine.

Merced would have become just another victim in a city where the media hits and runs—a thirty-second story on the English news channels, a four-paragraph report in the Times, a little more longevity in the Spanish media.

But a simple twist of fate changed that. Merced and his band, Los Reyes Jalisco, had performed three months earlier at the wedding of city councilman Armando Zeyas, and Zeyas was now ramping up a campaign for the mayor’s office.

Merced lived. The bullet damaged his spine and rendered him both a paraplegic and a cause. As the mayoral campaign took shape, Zeyas rolled him out in his wheelchair at all of his political rallies and speeches. He used Merced as the symbol of neglect suffered by the communities of East Los Angeles. Crime was high, and police attention low—they had yet to catch Merced’s shooter. Gang violence was unchecked, basic city services and long-planned projects like the extension of the Metro Gold Line were long delayed. Zeyas promised to be the mayor who would change that, and he used Merced and East L.A. to forge a base and strategy that separated him from a crowded pack of contenders. He made it to the runoff and then easily took the election. All the way, Merced was by his side, sitting in the wheelchair, clad in his charro suit and sometimes even wearing the bloodstained blouse he wore on the day of the shooting.

Zeyas served two terms. East L.A. got new attention from the city and the police. Crime went down. The Gold Line went through—even including an underground stop at Mariachi Plaza—and the mayor basked in the glow of his successes. But the person who shot Orlando Merced was never caught, and over time the bullet took a steady toll on his body. Infections led to numerous hospitalizations and surgeries. First he lost one leg, then the other. Adding insult to injury, the arm that once strummed the instrument that produced the rhythms of Mexican folk music was taken.

And, finally, Orlando Merced had died.

“The ball’s in our court now,” Malins had said to Bosch. “I don’t care what the goddamn newspaper says, we have to decide if this is a homicide. If his death can be attributed medically to that shooting nine years ago, then we make a case and you and Lucky Lucy go back into it.”

“Got it.”

“The autopsy’s gotta say homicide or this whole thing dies with Merced. No matter what the fucking Times says about it.”

“Got it.”

Bosch never turned down a case, because he knew he was running out of cases. But he had to wonder why Malins was giving the Merced investigation to him and Soto. He knew from the start that it was suspected that the bullet that had struck Merced had come from a gang gun. This meant the new investigation would almost wholly center on White Fence and the other prominent East L.A. gangs that traversed Boyle Heights. It was essentially going to be a Spanish-language case, and while Soto was obviously fluent, Bosch had limited skills in the language. He could order off a taco truck and tell a suspect to drop to his knees and put his hands behind his head. But conducting careful interviews and even interrogations in Spanish was not in his skill set. That would fall to Soto, and she, in his estimation, didn’t have the chops for it yet. There were at least two other teams in the unit that had Spanish speakers with more investigative experience. Malins should have gone with one of them.

The fact that Malins had not gone with the obvious and correct choice made Bosch suspicious. On one hand, the directive to put the Bosch-Soto team on the case could have come from the OCP. It would be a media-sensitive investigation, and having Soto, the hero cop, on the case might help mold a positive media response to the investigation. A darker alternative was that perhaps Malins wanted the Bosch-Soto team to fail and very publicly undercut the police chief’s edict to break with tradition and experience when he formed the new Open-Unsolved Unit. The chief’s jumping of several young and inexperienced officers over veteran detectives waiting for slots in RHD squads did not go over well within the rank and file. Maybe Malins was out to embarrass the chief for doing it.

Bosch tried to push speculation about motives aside as they rounded the corner and entered the visitor parking lot. He thought about the plan for the day and realized that they were probably less than a mile from Hollenbeck Station and even closer to Mariachi Plaza. They could take Mission down to 1st and then go under the 101. Ten minutes tops. He decided to reverse the order of stops that he had told Soto they would make.

They were halfway through the lot to the car when Bosch heard Soto’s name called from behind them. He turned to see a woman crossing the employee lot, holding a wireless microphone. Behind her a cameraman struggled to keep his camera up while he negotiated his way between cars.

“Shit,” Bosch said.

Bosch looked around to see if there were others. Someone—maybe Corazon—had tipped the media.

Bosch recognized the woman but he could not remember from which news show or press conference. But he didn’t know her and she didn’t know him. She went right to Soto with the microphone. Soto was the better-known quantity when it came to the media.

“Detective Soto, Katie Ashton, Channel Five, do you remember me?”

“Uh, I think…”

“Has Orlando Merced’s death officially been ruled a homicide?”

“Not yet,” Bosch said quickly, even though he was not on camera.

Both the camera and the reporter turned to him. This was not what he wanted, to be on the news. But he did want to get a few steps ahead of the media on the case.

“The Coroner’s Office is evaluating Mr. Merced’s medical records and will make a decision on that. We hope to know something very soon.”

“Will this restart the investigation of Mr. Merced’s shooting?”

“The case is still open and that’s all I have to say at this time.”

Without further word Ashton turned ninety degrees to her right and brought the microphone under Soto’s chin.

“Detective Soto, you were awarded the department’s Medal of Valor for the Pico-Union shoot-out. Are you now gunning for whoever shot Orlando Merced?”

Soto seemed momentarily nonplussed, then replied.

“I am not gunning for anyone.”

Bosch pushed past the videographer, who had swung around to film over Ashton’s left shoulder. He got to Soto and turned her toward their car.

“That’s it,” he said. “No further comment. Call media relations if you want anything else.”

They left the reporter and videographer there and walked quickly to the car. Bosch got into the driver’s seat.

“Good answer,” he said as he turned the ignition.

“What do you mean?” Soto responded.

“Your answer to her about gunning for the Merced shooter.”

“Oh.”

They drove out onto Mission and headed south. When they were a few blocks clear of the coroner’s office, Bosch pulled to the curb and stopped. He held out his hand to Soto.

“Let me see your phone for a second,” he said.

“What do you mean?” Soto asked.

“Let me see your phone. You said you had to make a call when I went into the autopsy. I want to see if you called that reporter. I can’t have a partner who’s addicted to or feeding the media.”

“No, Harry, I didn’t call her.”

“Good, then let me see your phone.”

Soto indignantly handed him her cell phone. It was an iPhone, same as Harry had. He opened up the call record. Soto had not made a call since the previous evening. And the last call she had received had been from Bosch that morning, telling her about the case they had just caught.

“Did you text her?”

He opened the text app and saw the most recent text was to someone named Maria. It was in Spanish. He held the phone up to his partner.

“Who’s this? What’s it say?”

“It’s to my friend. Look, I didn’t want to go in that room, okay?”

Bosch looked at her.

“What room? What are you—”

“The autopsy. I didn’t want to have to watch that.”

“So you lied to me?”

“I’m sorry, Harry. It’s embarrassing. I don’t think I can take that.”

Bosch handed the phone back.

“Just don’t lie to me, Lucia.”

He checked the side mirror and pulled away from the curb. They were silent until they got down to 1st Street and Bosch moved into the left-turn lane. Soto realized they were not heading to the regional crime lab with the bullet.

“Where are we going?”

“We’re in the neighborhood. I thought we’d check out Mariachi Plaza for a few minutes, then go to Hollenbeck for the murder book.”

“I see. What about firearms?”

“We’ll do it after. Is this related to the shoot-out—your not wanting to go to the autopsy?”

“No. I mean, I don’t know. I just didn’t want to see that, that’s all.”

Bosch let it go for the time being. Two minutes later they were approaching Mariachi Plaza and Bosch saw two TV trucks parked at the curb with their transmitters cranked up for live reports.

“They’re really jumping all over this,” he said. “We’ll come back later.”

He drove on by. A half mile later they came to the Hollenbeck Station. Brand-new and modern, with angled glass panels creating a facade that reflected the sun in multiple angles, it looked more like some sort of corporate office than a police station. Bosch pulled into the visitor lot and killed the engine.

“This is going to be pleasant,” he said.

“What do you mean?” Soto asked.

“You’ll see.”

–

The Gods of Guilt audiobook by Hachette Audio is read by Peter Giles. It is available in CD and in downloadable formats. Listen to an excerpt:

“As he’s done throughout the Haller series, Connelly shows a remarkable ability to bring the courtroom alive—not just the details of the case at hand and the procedural machinations but also the personal drama simmering below the surface of the thrust and counterthrust of legal strategy. …A gripping novel, both in the courtroom and outside of it, and a testament to the melancholy maturing of Mickey Haller.”
– Booklist *starred review

“plenty of drama, danger, and suspense in this gem of a legal thriller.”
– Publishers Weekly *starred review

“Thanks to Mickey’s complexities, the Lincoln Lawyer series keeps getting better. I think this is the best one yet”
– Washington Post

“Mr. Connelly writes courtroom drama as a changeable set of circumstances, so that Mickey’s role as manipulator is at least as important as his detecting. In this book, he does a very satisfying job of feinting about what he’s truly after until he leaves his real target wholly unprotected, and the maneuvering is masterly. ”
– New York Times

“An Amazon Best Book of the Month, December 2013: What distinguishes Connelly’s Lincoln Lawyer books from the average legal thriller is the complicated likeability of his flawed hero, Mickey Haller… Connelly writes crime fiction verging subversively on literature, and Haller is becoming an increasingly complex literary figure, cruising LA’s darkest corners in a style that feels like a modern twist on Chinatown. …Incredibly, Connelly just keeps getting better.”
– Amazon Editorial Review

“In “The Gods of Guilt,” Connelly’s fifth outing with Mickey, he delivers another heart-pounding walk on the other side of the mean streets Bosch patrols so vigilantly, while painting a deeper, more nuanced picture of Haller and his legal team. …Yet for all of the deft character touches Connelly layers in the book, “The Gods  of Guilt” is first and foremost a propulsive, engaging legal thriller that for  sheer courtroom drama surpasses the bestselling “The Fifth Witness,” which  earned Connelly the 2012 Harper Lee Prize for legal fiction. And while Lee’s  Atticus Finch might not have defended clients quite like Andre La Cosse or  Gloria Dayton, both he and Mickey Haller share a thirst for justice, regardless  of the cost, that makes Haller a worthy colleague of Finch and Bosch and puts  him in the front of the pack in the legal thriller game.”
– Los Angeles Times

“Connelly is a master of crime fiction, and his latest Mickey Haller book continues the trend of compelling stories while forcing the reader to grapple with moral ambiguities. He’s dominated both sides of the justice system, and his latest trip into the courtroom will continue to expand his reputation and fan base.”
– Associated Press

“Michael Connelly delivers a compelling, suspense-laden plot that accelerates at high speed from the first page in his fifth outing with Mickey. “The Gods of Guilt” stretches the legal thriller’s boundaries, making the novel as much of a character study about a very flawed man haunted by the fact that doing his job well can have fatal repercussions. …It’s almost become a cliché for me to add that each novel shows why Connelly continues to be one of the best – and most consistent – living crime writers. “The Gods of Guilt” hands down that verdict again.”
– The Sun Sentinel

“His characters, even at their darkest, usually display grim determination and self-assurance. But here, Connelly abandons that formula and instead focuses on Haller’s insecurities and weaknesses. The result is his most complex, nuanced and rewarding novel in more than a decade.”
– Arizona Republic

“One of the best things about immersing yourself in the world of Mickey Haller is his riveting voice. In recounting his ongoing legal and personal adventures and misadventures in the “City of Angels,’’ the defense attorney and central character of Michael Connelly’s popular Lincoln lawyer series maintains a refreshingly straightforward, confiding, engaging tone, and never shies away from revealing his vulnerable moments and uncertainties. Without drifting into a sea of sentimentality, Haller exposes his soft underbelly as a legal eagle, a twice-divorced-yet-hopeful lover, and a dad. …This latest outing offers unfettered pleasure to regular readers, and a terrific introduction to new ones.”
– Boston Globe

“”The Gods of Guilt” proves that time has only honed Connelly’s skill. …Connelly is great in setting up characters. Haller carries a lot of baggage.  He’s damaged, guilt-ridden, mercenary, but at heart a pretty decent guy.  But  it’s the courtroom drama that is riveting.”
– Denver Post

“So five novels into the Haller saga, with the new book, “The Gods of Guilt,” it’s fair to ask how the series is working out.  The answer is, really, really well.  …In this book, Connelly certainly sets himself a challenge. And he meets it.”
– New York Daily News

“Connelly is one of the great crime writers, a novelist who creates a fictional world so succinctly, and inhabits it so purposefully, that you are convinced it must be real. His mastery of place and character, his ease with dialogue, his control of plot gives his books a subtlety that is irresistible.”
– Daily Mail (UK) 

“Nobody writes a courtroom thriller quite like Connelly, and this one’s a humdinger. …You won’t put it down!”
– Peterborough Telegraph (UK)

“Connelly does a masterful job of creating and sustaining drama. …Mickey, as fans will know, is the half-brother of Connelly’s greatest creation, homicide investigator Harry Bosch (who makes a very brief appearance in this book). Bosch’s sense of justice is unbending, the driving force in his life — his personal credo is “Everybody counts or nobody counts.” Mickey has a way to go before he develops his big brother’s sense of integrity, but The Gods of Guilt is a fascinating step in that direction.”
– Tampa Bay Tribune

“This is the fifth novel in the Lincoln Lawyer series and the one in which Connelly does the best job of fleshing out Haller.”
– Houston Chronicle

“Connelly’s attention to Mickey’s dilemma raises  The Gods of Guilt out of the territory of simple thriller and into an exploration of morality and its consequences.”
– Columbus Dispatch

“Connelly has a gift for fast-paced drama, and isn’t afraid to paint a warts-and-all portrait of his main character. When it comes to passing judgment on Haller’s style of lawyering, Connelly will let the reader decide.”
– Minneapolis Star Tribune

 

We have two videos to share with you. The first is the official book “trailer”  created by Little, Brown and Company, Michael’s US publisher. The second is a video with Michael sharing information about this book.

 

My novel, The Black Box, is perhaps more special to me than other books have been, and I have high hopes that Harry Bosch readers will particularly embrace it. I guess it’s because the book has special meaning for me on multiple levels. First of all, it’s my twenty-fifth novel, and I don’t think any writer starting out can ever see the day when they will be publishing their twenty-fifth novel. I know I certainly didn’t. When I started out, my hope was to get one book published and maybe follow it up with another. There was no thought at all about quitting my day job. So twenty-five for me was a pie in the sky sort of thing. So was twenty years. Yes, this is my twenty-fifth novel in twenty years of publishing. Hard to believe. When that first novel came out in 1992, I didn’t even have an e-mail account or a cell phone, there were no book blogs or e-books, and the first George Bush was president. As Jerry Garcia (who was alive then) would say, “What a long, strange trip it’s been.”

But I think what makes this book so special to me is something much more than literary anniversaries and book numbers. It’s the subject matter. Harry Bosch reopens the unsolved case of a journalist murdered during the riots that took place in Los Angeles in 1992. This is a subject that has always been important to me, and it’s the twentieth anniversary of this event that really inspired the book and makes it so special to me.

In 1992, I had not yet quit my day job. The year opened with The Black Echo being published in January and my literary career kicking off with some pretty good reviews. I took a couple of weeks off to promote the book and then I was back to work as a reporter for the Los Angeles Times covering the crime beat. Cops and crime all came together horribly at the end of April, when riots broke out following not-guilty verdicts in the trial of four officers accused of police brutality in the beating of Rodney King. I lived in and loved Los Angeles. I was writing fiction by night about a detective who loved his city and worked to make it better. When those verdicts came down, the city completely lost it. From a few disparate flash points a mob mentality took over, and America’s postmodern city was torn apart. I saw the best and worst in people, images I can’t forget and that I still work out in my fiction all the time.

On the first night of the riots I was posted at the spot where Rodney King had been pulled over by police and beaten while more than a dozen officers surrounded him. There was now a crowd there gathered to hear the verdicts and to rejoice in justice prevailing. But they didn’t hear what they had expected to hear. Nobody did—even the seasoned journalists. And the crowd grew frustrated and angry. There were other reporters there and TV trucks with video screens showing violence breaking out in other parts of the city. Soon I was surrounded by angry people. They were pushing and yelling, angry with the messenger: the reporters bearing the bad news. In fourteen years as a journalist it was the only time I ever felt that I was truly in danger. But I was surrounded, and there was nowhere to go. I had put my notebook away and was simply holding my hands up, palms out in front of me, showing that I was not a threat, that I was not the bad guy here. Then suddenly the crowd was parted by one man. A black man, a total stranger to me, wearing a T-shirt that I will always remember said LOVE on it. He pushed through to me and raised his hand. I braced for what was coming, and what came was his hand on my arm. He said, “I’ve got to get you out of here.”

And he did. He pushed back through the crowd, pulling me with him. Something about him having hold of my arm made people step back and give me passage. Was it the T-shirt? Did his act of kindness and bravery make them realize what they were doing? I don’t know. All I know is that he got me to my car and stood by it while I got in and got away from there. I was safe and could finally breathe again. As I was driving away, I realized I would never know who that man was and that I had not even said thank you.

The rest of that night and the following night I moved around the city and called in reports on widespread looting and arson. I watched them pull a school bus up in front of the doors to the LAPD’s Foothill Station to help repel the angry crowd that descended on the place where the officers who beat Rodney King had been assigned. I walked down Hollywood Boulevard, watching groups of mindless looters descend en masse on Frederick’s of Hollywood, a lingerie store. Nothing made sense in what I was seeing. Los Angeles became a place I didn’t recognize.

It is no wonder to me that the riots have come up often in the fiction I have written since then. At least four of my books drew partial plot lines from them. And now with The Black Box I go back to 1992 and begin with Harry Bosch attempting to do his job in those harrowing circumstances. I think that with what I have written I have finally said what I needed to say about that time. I’ve gotten it out of my system. I can’t say for certain that 1992 won’t come up again in the next twenty-five novels I hope to write. But I think I’m finished with it. The Black Box is dedicated to all of the readers who have sustained Harry Bosch for all these years, and to the unknown man in the T-shirt who parted the crowd that day.

*May not be posted or reprinted without the permission of the publisher.

 

Part 1: Glory Days

Tuesday, November 13th

Chapter 1

I approached the witness stand with a warm and welcoming smile. This, of course, belied my true intent, which was to destroy the woman who sat there with her eyes fixed on me. Claire Welton had just identified my client as the man who had forced her out of her Mercedes E60 at gunpoint on Christmas Eve last year. She said he was the one who then shoved her to the ground before taking off with the car, her purse and all the shopping bags she had loaded into the back seat at the mall. As she had just told the prosecutor who questioned her, he had also made off with her sense of security and self-confidence, even though for these more personal thefts he had not been charged.

“Good morning, Mrs. Welton.”

“Good morning.”

She said the words like they were synonyms for please don’t hurt me. But everyone in the courtroom knew it was my job to hurt her today and thereby hurt the state’s case against my client, Leonard Watts. Welton was in her sixties and matronly. She didn’t look fragile but I had to hope she was.

Welton was a Beverly Hills housewife and one of three victims who were roughed up and robbed in a pre-Christmas crime spree resulting in the nine charges against Watts. The police had labeled him the “Bumper Car Bandit,” a strong-arm thief who followed targeted women from the malls, bumped into their cars at stop signs in residential neighborhoods and then took their vehicles and belongings at gunpoint when they stepped out of their cars to check for damage. He then pawned or resold all the goods, kept any cash, and dropped the cars off at chop shops in the Valley.

But all of that was alleged and hinged on someone identifying Leonard Watts as the culprit in front of the jury. That was what made Claire Welton so special and the key witness of the trial. She was the only one of the three victims who pointed Watts out to the jury and unequivocally claimed that he was the one, that he did it. She was the seventh witness presented by the prosecution in two days but as far as I was concerned she was the only witness. She was the number one pin. And if I knocked her down at just the right angle all the other pins would go down with her.

I needed to roll a strike here or the jurors who were watching would send Leonard Watts away for a very long time.

I carried a single sheet of paper with me to the witness stand. I identified it as the original crime report created by a patrol officer who was first to respond to the 911 call placed by Claire Welton from a borrowed cell phone after the carjacking occurred. It was already part of the state’s exhibits. After asking for and receiving approval from the judge, I placed the document down on the ledge at the front of the witness stand. Welton leaned away from me as I did this. I was sure most members of the jury saw this as well.

I started asking my first question as I walked back to the lectern between the prosecution and defense tables.

“Mrs. Welton, you have there the original crime report taken on the day of the unfortunate incident in which you were victimized. Do you remember talking with the officer who arrived to help you?”

“Yes, of course I do.”

“You told him what happened, correct?”

“Yes. I was still shaken up at the – ”

“But you did tell him what happened so he could put a report out about the man who robbed you and took your car, is that correct?”

“Yes.”

“That was Officer Corbin, correct?”

“I guess. I don’t remember his name but it says it on the report.”

“But you do remember telling the officer what happened, correct?”

“Yes.”

“And he wrote down a summary of what you said, correct?”

“Yes, he did.”

“And he even asked you to read the summary and initial it, didn’t he?”

“Yes, but I was very nervous.”

“Are those your initials at the bottom of the summary paragraph on the report?”

“Yes.”

“Mrs. Welton, will you now read out loud to the jury what Officer Corbin wrote down after talking with you?”

Welton hesitated as she studied the summary before reading it out loud.

Kristina Medina, the prosecutor, used the moment to stand and object.

“Your Honor, whether the witness initialed the officer’s summary or not, counsel is still trying to impeach her testimony with writing that is not hers. The people object.”

Judge Michael Siebecker squinted his eyes and turned to me.

“Judge, by initialing the officer’s report the witness adopted the statement. It is present recollection recorded and the jury should hear it.”

Siebecker overruled the objection and instructed Mrs. Welton to read the initialed statement from the report. She finally complied.

“‘Victim stated that she stopped at the intersection of Camden and Elevado and soon after was struck from behind by a car that pulled up. When she opened her door to get out and check for damage, she was met by a black male thirty to thirty-five YOA—’ I don’t know what that means.”

“Years of age,” I said. “Keep reading, please.”

“’He grabbed her by the hair and pulled her the rest of the way out of the car and to the ground in the middle of the street. He pointed a black, short barrel revolver at her face and told her he would shoot her if she moved or made any sound. The suspect then jumped into her car and drove off in a northerly direction, followed by the car that had rear-ended her vehicle. Victim could offer no . . .”

I waited but she didn’t finish.

“Your Honor, can you instruct the witness to read the entire statement as written on the day of the incident?”

“Mrs. Welton,” Judge Siebecker intoned. “Please continue to read the statement in its entirety.”

“But, Judge this isn’t everything I said.”

“Mrs. Welton,” the judge said forcefully. “Read the entire statement, as the defense counselor asked you to.”

Welton relented and read the last sentence of the summary.

“‘Victim could offer no further description of the suspect at this time.’”

“Thank you, Mrs. Welton,” I said. “Now while there wasn’t much in the way of a description of the suspect, you were from the start able to describe in detail the gun he used, isn’t that right?”

“I don’t know about how much detail. He pointed it at my face so I got a good look at it and was able to describe what I saw. The officer helped me by describing the difference between a revolver and the other kind of gun. I think an automatic, it’s called.”

“And you were able to describe the kind of gun it was, the color and even the length of the barrel.”

“Aren’t all guns black?”

“How about if I ask the questions right now, Mrs. Welton?”

“Well, the officer asked a lot of questions about the gun.”

“But you weren’t able to describe the man who pointed the gun at you, and yet two hours later you pick his face out of a bunch of mug shots. Do I have that right, Mrs. Welton?”

“You have to understand something. I saw the man who robbed me and pointed the gun. Being able to describe him and recognize him are two different things. When I saw that picture I knew it was him, just as sure as I know it’s him sitting at that table.”

I turned to the judge.

“Your Honor, I would like to strike that as non-responsive.”

Medina stood up.

“Judge, counsel is making broad statements in his so-called questions. He made a statement and the witness merely responded. The motion to strike has no foundation.”

“Motion to strike is denied,” the judge said quickly. “Ask your next question, Mr. Haller, and I do mean a question.”

I did and I tried. For the next twenty minutes I hammered away at Claire Welton and her identification of my client. I questioned how many black people she knew in her life as a Beverly Hills housewife and opened the door on interracial identification issues. All to no avail. At no point was I able to shake her resolve or belief that Leonard Watts was the man who robbed her. Along the way she seemed to recover one of things she said she had lost in the robbery. Her self-confidence. The more I worked her, the more she seemed to bear up under the verbal assault and send it right back at me. By the end she was a rock. Her identification of my client was still standing. And I had bowled a gutter ball.

I told the judge I had no further questions and headed back to the defense table. Medina told the judge she had a short redirect and I knew she would ask Welton a series of questions that would only reinforce her identification of Watts. As I slid into my seat next to Watts his eyes searched my face for any indication of hope.

“Well,” I whispered to him. “That’s it. We are done.”

He leaned back from me as if repelled by my breath or words or both.

“We?” he said.

He said it loud enough to interrupt Medina, who turned and looked at the defense table. I put my hands out palms down in a calming gesture and mouthed the words Cool it to him.

“Cool it?” he said aloud. “I’m not going to cool it. You told me you had this, that she was no problem.”

“Mr. Haller!” the judge barked. “Control your client, please, or I’ll have – ”

Watts didn’t wait for whatever it was the judge was about to threaten to do. He launched his body into me, hitting me like a cornerback breaking up a pass play. My chair tipped over with me in it and we spilled onto the floor at Medina’s feet. She jumped back to avoid getting hurt herself as Watts drew his right arm back. I was on my left side on the floor, my right arm pinned under Watts’s body. I manage to raise my left hand and caught his fist as it came at me. It merely softened the blow. His fist took my own hand into my jaw.

I was peripherally aware of screams and motion around me. Watts pulled his fist back as he prepared for punch number two. But the courtroom deputies were on him before he could throw it. They gang tackled him, their momentum taking him off me and onto the floor in the well in front of the counsel tables.

It all seemed to move in slow motion. The judge was barking commands no one was listening to. Medina and the court reporter were backing away from the melee. The court clerk had stood up behind her corral and was watching in horror. Watts was chest down on the floor, a deputy’s hand on the side of his head, pressing it to the tile, an odd smile on his face as his hands were cuffed behind his back.

And in a moment it was over.

“Deputies, remove him from the courtroom!” Siebecker commanded.

Watts was dragged through the steel door at the side of the courtroom and into the holding cell used to house incarcerated defendants. I was left sitting on the floor, surveying the damage. I had blood on my mouth and teeth and down the crisp white shirt I was wearing. My tie was strewn on the floor. It was the clip-on I wear on days I visit clients in holding cells and don’t want to get pulled through the bars.

I rubbed my jaw with my hand and ran my tongue along the rows of teeth. Everything seemed intact and in working order. I pulled a white handkerchief out of an inside jacket pocket and started wiping off my face as I used my free hand to grab the defense table and help myself up.

“Jeannie,” the judge said to his clerk. “Call paramedics for Mr. Haller.”

“No, Judge,” I said quickly. “I’m okay. Just need to clean up a little bit.”

I reached down to the floor for my tie and then made a pathetic attempt at decorum, reattaching it to my collar despite the deep red stain that had ruined the front of my shirt. As I worked the clip into my buttoned collar, several deputies reacting to the courtroom panic button undoubtedly pushed by the judge stormed in through the main doors at the back. Siebecker quickly told them to stand down and that the incident had passed. The deputies fanned out across the back wall of the courtroom, a show of force in case there was anyone else in the courtroom thinking about acting out.

I took one last swipe at my face with the handkerchief and then spoke up.

“Your Honor,” I said. “I am deeply sorry for my client’s – ”

“Not now, Mr. Haller. Take your seat and you do the same, Ms. Medina. Everybody calm down and sit down.”

I did as instructed, holding the folded handkerchief to my mouth and watching as the judge turned his seat fully toward the jury box. First he told Claire Welton that she was excused from the witness stand. She got up tentatively and walked toward the gate behind the counsel tables. She looked more shaken than anyone else in the courtroom. No doubt for good reason. She probably figured that Watts could have just as easily gone after her as me. And if he had been quick enough he would’ve gotten to her.

Welton sat down in the first row of the gallery, which was reserved for witnesses and staff, and the judge proceeded with the jury.

“Ladies and gentlemen, I am truly sorry that you had to see that display. The courtroom is never a place for violence. It is the place where civilized society takes its stand against the violence that is out on our streets. It truly pains me when something like this occurs.”

There was a metal snapping sound as the two courtroom deputies returned from the holding cell. I wondered how  badly they had roughed up Watts while securing him in the cell.

The judge paused and then returned his attention to the jury.

“Unfortunately, Mr. Watts’s decision to attack his attorney has prejudiced our ability to go forward. I believe – ”

“Your Honor?” Medina interrupted. “If the state could be heard.”

Medina knew exactly where the judge was headed and needed to do something.

“Not now, Ms. Medina, and do not interrupt the court.”

But Medina was persistent.

“Your Honor, could counsel approach at sidebar?”

The judge looked annoyed with her but relented. I let her lead the way and we walked up to the bench. The judge hit the switch on a noise-canceling fan so the jury would not overhear our whispers. Before Medina could state her case the judge asked me once more if I wanted medical attention.

“I’m fine, Judge, but I appreciate the offer. I think the only thing worse for wear is my shirt, actually.”

The judge nodded and turned his attention to Medina.

“I know your objection, Ms. Medina, but there is nothing I can do. The jury is prejudiced by what they just saw. I have no choice.”

“Your Honor, this case is about a very violent defendant who committed very violent acts. The jury knows this. They won’t be unduly prejudiced by what they saw. The jury is entitled to view and judge for themselves the demeanor of the defendant. Because he voluntarily engaged in violent acts, the prejudice to the defendant is neither undue nor unfair.”

“If I could be heard, Your Honor, I beg to differ with – ”

“Besides that,” Medina continued, running me over, “I fear the court is being manipulated by this defendant. He full well knew that he could get a new trial this way. He – ”

“Whoa, wait a minute here,” I protested. “Counsel’s objection is replete with unfounded innuendo and – ”

“Ms. Medina, the objection is overruled,” the judge said, cutting off all debate. “Even if the prejudice is neither undue nor unfair, Mr. Watts has effectively just fired his attorney. I can’t require Mr. Haller to go forward in these circumstances and I am not inclined to allow Mr. Watts back into this courtroom. Step back. Both of you.”

“Judge, I want the people’s objection on the record for appeal.”

“You shall have it. Now step back.”

We returned to our tables and the judge turned off the fan and then addressed the jury.

“Ladies and gentlemen, as I was saying, the event you just witnessed has created a situation prejudicial to the defendant. I believe that it will be too difficult for you to divorce yourself from what you just saw as you deliberate on his guilt or innocence of the charges. Therefore, I must declare a mistrial at this time and discharge you with the thanks of this court and the people of California. Deputy Carlyle will escort you back to the assembly room where you may gather your things and go home.”

The jurors seemed unsure what to do or whether everything was over. Finally, one brave man in the box stood up and soon the others followed. They filed out through a door at the back of the courtroom.

I looked over at Kristina Medina. She sat at the prosecution table with her chin down, defeated. The judge abruptly adjourned court for the day and left the bench. I folded my ruined handkerchief and put it away.

Chapter 2

My full day had been scheduled for trial. Suddenly released from it, I had no clients to see, no prosecutors to work and no place to be. I left the courthouse and walked down Temple to First. At the corner there was a trashcan. I took out my handkerchief, held it to my lips and spit all the debris from my mouth into it. I then tossed it away.

I took a right on First and saw the line of Town Cars running along the sidewalk. There were six of them in line like a funeral procession, their drivers gathered together on the sidewalk, shooting the shit and waiting. They say imitation is the sincerest form of flattery, but ever since the movie a whole contingent of Lincoln lawyers had cropped up and routinely crowded the curbs outside the courthouses of L.A. I was both proud and annoyed. I heard more than a few times that there were other lawyers out there saying they were the inspiration for the film. On top of that, I had jumped into the wrong Lincoln at least three times in the last month.

This time there would be no mistake. As I headed down the hill I pulled my cell phone and called Earl Briggs, my driver. I could see him up ahead. He answered right away and I told him to pop the trunk, then I hung up.

I saw the trunk of the third Lincoln in line rise and I had my destination. When I got there I put my briefcase down and then took off my jacket, tie and shirt. I had a t-shirt on underneath so I wasn’t stopping traffic. I chose a pale blue oxford from the stack of backup shirts I keep in the trunk, unfolded it and started pulling it on. Earl came over from the klatch with the other drivers. He had been my driver on and off for nearly a decade. Whenever he ran into trouble he came to me and then worked off my fee by driving. This time it wasn’t his own trouble he was paying for. I handled his mother’s foreclosure defense and got her straightened out without her having to go homeless. That got me about six months’ worth of driving from Earl.

I had draped my ruined shirt over the fender. He picked it up and examined it.

“What, somebody spill a whole thing of Hawaiian Punch on you or something?”

“Something like that. Come on, let’s go.”

“I thought you had court all day.”

“I did too. But things change.”

“Where to then?”

“Let’s go by Philippe’s first.”

“You got it.”

He got in the front and I got in the back. After a quick stop at the sandwich shop on Alameda I had Earl point the car west. The next stop was a place called Menorah Manor near Park La Brea in the Fairfax District. I said I’d be about an hour and got out with my briefcase. I had tucked my fresh shirt in but didn’t bother clipping my tie back on. I wouldn’t need it.

Menorah Manor was a four-story nursing home on Willoughby east of Fairfax. I signed in at the front desk and took the elevator up to the third floor where I informed the woman at the nursing desk that I had a legal consultation with my client David Siegel and was not to be disturbed in his room. She was a pleasant woman who was used to my frequent visits. She nodded her approval and I went down the hallway to room 334.

I entered and closed the door after putting the do not disturb sign on the outside handle. David “Legal” Siegel was lying in bed, his eyes on the screen of a muted television bolted to the upper wall across from the bed. His thin white hands were on top of a blanket. There was a low hiss from the tube that brought oxygen to his nose. He smiled when he saw me.

“Mickey.”

“Legal, how are you doing today?”

“Same as yesterday. Did you bring anything?”

I pulled the visitor’s chair away from the wall and positioned it so I could sit in his line of vision. At eighty-one years old, he didn’t have a lot of mobility. I opened my briefcase on the bed and turned it so he could reach into it.

“French dip from Philippe the Original. How’s that?”

“Oh, boy,” he said.

Menorah Manor was a kosher joint and I used the legal consultation bit as a way around it. Legal Siegel missed the places he’d eaten at during a forty-year run as a lawyer in downtown. I was happy to bring him the culinary joy. He had been my father’s law partner. He was the strategist while my father had been the front man, the performer who enacted the strategies in court. A year ago I had come to him after losing the election for District Attorney in scandal and self-destruction. I was looking for life strategy and Legal Siegel was there for me. In that way, these meetings were legitimate consultations between lawyer and client, only the people at the desk didn’t understand that I was the client.

I helped him unwrap the sandwich and opened the plastic container holding the jus that made the sandwiches from Phillippe’s so good. There was also a sliced pickle wrapped in foil.

Legal smiled after his first bite and pumped his skinny arm like he had just won a great victory. I smiled. I was glad to bring him something. He had two sons and a bunch of grandchildren but they never came around except on the holidays. As Legal told me, “They need you until they don’t need you.”

When I was with Legal we talked mostly about cases and he would suggest strategies. He was absolute aces when it came to predicting prosecution plans and case roll outs. It didn’t matter that he had not been in a courtroom in this century or that penal codes had changed since his day. He had baseline experience and always had a play. He called them moves, actually – the doubleblind move, the judge’s robes move and so on. I had come to him during the dark time that followed the election. I wanted to learn about my father and how he had dealt with the adversities of his life. But I ended up learning more about the law and how it was like soft lead. How it could be bent and molded.

“The law is malleable,” Legal Siegel always told me. “It’s pliable.”

I considered him to be part of my team and that allowed me to discuss my cases with him. He’d throw out ideas and his so-called moves. Sometimes I used them and they worked, sometimes not.

He ate slowly. I had learned that if I gave him a sandwich, he could take an hour to eat it, steadily chewing small bites. Nothing went to waste. He ate everything I brought him.

“The girl in three-thirty died last night,” he said between bites. “A shame.”

“I’m sorry to hear that. How old was she?”

“She was young. Early seventies. Just died in her sleep and they carted her out this morning.”

I nodded. I didn’t know what to say. Legal took another bite and reached into my briefcase for a napkin.

“You’re not using the jus, Legal. That’s the good stuff.”

“I think I like it dry. Hey, you used the bloody flag move, didn’t you? How’d it go?”

When he grabbed the napkin he had spotted the extra blood capsule I kept in a Ziploc bag. I had it just in case I swallowed the first one by mistake.

“Like a charm,” I said.

“You get the mistrial?”

“Yep. In fact, mind if I use your bathroom?”

I reached into the briefcase and grabbed another Ziploc containing my toothbrush. I went into the room’s bathroom and brushed my teeth at the sink. The red dye turned the brush pink at first but soon it was all down the drain.

When I came back to the chair I noticed that Legal had only finished half his sandwich. I knew the rest must be cold and there was no way I could take it out to the dayroom to heat it in the microwave. But Legal still seemed happy.

“Details,” he demanded.

“Well, I tried to break the witness but she held up. She was a rock. When I got back to the table I gave him the signal and he did his thing. He hit me a little harder than I was expecting but I’m not complaining. The best part is I didn’t have to make the motion to declare a mistrial. The judge went right to it on his own.”

“Over prosecution’s objection?”

“Oh, yeah.”

“Good. Fuck ’em.”

Legal Siegel was a defense attorney through and through. For him, any ethical question or gray area could be overcome by the knowledge that it is the sworn duty of the defense attorney to present the best defense of his client. If that meant tipping a mistrial when the chips were down, then so be it.

“Now, the question is, will he deal now?”

“It’s actually a she, and I think she’ll deal. You should’ve seen the witness after the scuffle. She was scared and I don’t think she’ll be wanting to come back for another trial. I’ll wait a week and have Jennifer call the prosecutor. I think she’ll be ready to deal.”

Jennifer was my associate Jennifer Aronson. She would need to take over representation of Leonard Watts because if I stayed on it would look like the setup it was and which Kristina Medina had alluded to in the courtroom.

Medina had refused to negotiate a plea agreement before the trial because Leonard Watts declined to give up his partner, the guy who drove the car that bumped into each of the victims. Watts wouldn’t snitch and so Medina wouldn’t deal. Things would be different in a week, I thought, for a variety of reasons. I had seen most of the prosecution’s case laid out in the first trial, Medina’s main witness was spooked by what had happened in front of her in court today, and mounting a second trial would be a costly use of taxpayers’ money. Added to that, I had given Medina a glimpse of what might come if the defense presented a case to a jury – namely my intention to explore through expert witnesses the pitfalls of interracial recognition and identification. That was something no prosecutor wanted to deal with in front of a jury.

“Hell,” I said. “She might call me before I even have to go to her.”

That part was wishful thinking but I wanted Legal to feel good about the move he had strategized for me.

While I was up I took the extra blood capsule out of the briefcase and dropped it into the room’s hazardous waste container. There was no need for it anymore.

My phone buzzed and I pulled it out of my pocket. It was my case manager Lorna Taylor calling but I decided to let it go to message. I’d call her back after my visit with Legal.

“What else you got going now?” Legal asked.

I spread my hands.

“Well, no trial now so I guess I have the rest of the week off. I may go down to arraignment court tomorrow and see if I can pick up a client or two. I could use the work.”

Not only could I use the income but the work would keep me busy and not thinking about the things in my life that were wrong. In that sense the law had become more than a craft and a calling. It kept me sane.

By checking in at Department 130, the arraignment court in the downtown criminal courts building, I had a shot at picking up clients the public defender was dropping because of conflict of interest. Every time the DA filed a multi-defendant case the PD could only take on one defendant, putting all others in conflict. If those other defendants did not have private counsel the judge would appoint counsel to them. If I happened to be there twiddling my thumbs, more often than not I’d pick up a case. It paid government scale but it was better than no work and no pay.

“And to think,” Legal said, “at one point last fall you were running five points up in the polls. And now here you are scrounging around first appearance court looking for handouts.”

As he had aged, Legal had lost most of the social filters normally employed in polite company.

“Thanks, Legal,” I said. “I can always count on you for a fair and accurate take on my lot in life. It’s refreshing.”

Legal Siegel raised his bony hands in what I guessed was an apologetic gesture.

“I’m just saying.”

“Sure.”

“So what about your daughter then?”

This was how Legal’s mind worked. Sometime he couldn’t remember what he had for breakfast, but he seemed to always remember that I had lost more than the election the year before. The scandal had cost me the love and companionship of my daughter and any shot I’d had at putting my broken family back together.

“Things are still the same there, but let’s not go down that road today,” I said.

I checked my phone again after feeling the vibration signaling I had received a text. It was from Lorna. She had surmised that I wasn’t taking calls or listening to voicemail. A text was different.

Call me ASAP – 187

Her mention of the California penal code number for murder got my attention. It was time to go.

“You know, Mickey, I only bring her up because you don’t.”

“I don’t want to bring her up. It’s too painful, Legal. I get drunk every Friday night so I can sleep through most of Saturday. You know why?”

“No, I don’t know why you would get drunk. You did nothing wrong. You did your job with that guy Galloway or whatever his name was.”

“I drink Friday nights so I am out of it Saturdays because Saturdays were when I used to see my daughter. His name was Gallagher, Sean Gallagher, and it doesn’t matter if I was doing my job. People died and it’s on me, Legal. You can’t hide behind just doing your job when two people get creamed in an intersection by the guy you set free. Anyway, I gotta go.”

I stood up and showed him the phone as if it were the reason I needed to go.

“What, I don’t see you for a month and now you already have to go? I’m not finished with my sandwich here.”

“I saw you last Tuesday, Legal. And I’ll see you sometime next week. If not then, then the week after. You hang in and hold fast.”

“Hold fast? What’s that supposed to mean?”

“It means hold on to what you got. My half brother the cop told me that one. Finish that sandwich before they come in here and take it from you.”

I moved toward the door.

“Hey, Mickey Mouse.”

I turned back to him. It was the name he bestowed on me when I was a baby, born at four and a half pounds. Normally I’d tell him not to call me that anymore. But I let him have it so I could go.

“What?”

“Your father always called the jurors the gods of guilt. You remember that?”

“Yep. Because they decide, guilty or not guilty. What’s your point, Legal?”

“The point is that there are plenty of people out there judging us every day of our lives and for every move we make. The gods of guilt are many. You don’t need to add to them.”

I nodded but couldn’t resist a reply.

“Sandy Patterson and her daughter Katie.”

Legal looked confused by my response. He didn’t recognize the names. I, of course, would never forget them.

“The mother and daughter Gallagher killed. They’re my gods of guilt.”

I closed the door behind me and left the do not disturb sign on the knob. Maybe he’d get the sandwich down before the nurses checked on him and discovered our crime.

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