The Reversal

by Michael Connelly

  Bosch turned back. The door was open six inches. He saw a set of hollow eyes looking out at him, a dim light behind them.

  "Let me see."

  Bosch looked around.

  "What, out here?" he said. "They got cameras all over the place."

  "Eddie tol' me not to open the door for strangers. You look like a cop to me."

  "Well, maybe I am, but that doesn't change that Eddie sent me."

  Bosch started to turn again.

  "Like I said, I'll tell him I tried. Have a nice night."

  "Okay, okay. You can come in but only to make the drop. Nothing else."

  Bosch walked back toward the door. She moved behind it and opened it. He entered and turned to her and saw the gun. It was an old revolver and he saw no bullets in the exposed chambers. Bosch raised his hands chest high. He could tell she was hurting. She'd been waiting too long for somebody, putting blind junkie trust in something that wouldn't pay off.

  "That's not necessary, Sonia. Besides, I don't think Eddie left you with any bullets."

  "I got one left. You want to try it?"

  Probably the one she was saving for herself. She was skin and bones and close to the end of the line. No junkie went the distance.

  "Give it to me," she ordered. "Now."

  "Okay, take it easy. I have it right here."

  He reached his right hand into his coat pocket and pulled out a balled piece of aluminum foil he had taken from a roll in Mickey Haller's kitchen. He held it out to the right of his body and he knew her desperate eyes would follow it. He shot his left hand out and snatched the gun out of her hand. He then stepped forward and roughly shoved her onto the bed.

  "Shut up and don't move," he commanded.

  "What is--?"

  "I said shut up!"

  He popped the gun's barrel out and checked it. She had been right. There was one bullet left. He slid it out into his palm and then put it in his pocket. He hooked the gun into his belt. Then he pulled his badge wallet and opened it for her to see.

  "You had that right," he said.

  "What do you want?"

  "We'll get to that."

  Bosch moved around the bed, looking about the threadbare room. It smelled like cigarettes and body odor. There were several plastic grocery bags on the floor containing her belongings. Shoes in one, clothing in a few others. On the bed's lone side table was an overloaded ashtray and a glass pipe.

  "What are you hurting for, Sonia. Crack? Heroin? Or is it meth?"

  She didn't answer.

  "I can help you better if I know what you need."

  "I don't want your help."

  Bosch turned and looked at her. So far things were going exactly as he predicted they would.

  "Really?" he said. "Don't need my help? You think Eddie Roman is going to come back for you?"

  "He's coming back."

  "I got news for you. He's already gone. I'm guessing they got him cleaned up nice and neat and he won't be coming back up here once he does what they want him to do. He'll take the paycheck and when that runs out he'll just find himself a new trick partner."

  He paused and looked at her.

  "Somebody who still has something somebody would want to buy."

  Her eyes took on the distant look of someone who knows the truth when she hears it.

  "Leave me alone," she said in a hoarse whisper.

  "I know I'm not telling you anything you don't already know. You've been waiting for Eddie longer than you thought you would, huh? How many days you have left on the room?"

  He read the answer in her eyes.

  "Already past, huh? Probably giving the guy in the office blowjobs to let you stay. How long's that going to last? Pretty soon he'll just want the money."

  "I said go away."

  "I will. But you come with me, Sonia. Right now."

  "What do you want?"

  "I want to know everything you know about Eddie Roman."

  PART FOUR

  --The Silent Witness

  Thirty-seven

  Thursday, April 8, 9:01 A.M.

  Before the judge called for the jury, Clive Royce stood and asked the court for a directed verdict of acquittal. He argued that the state had failed to live up to its duty in carrying the burden of proof. He said that the evidence presented by the prosecutors failed to cross the threshold of guilt beyond a reasonable doubt. I was ready to stand to argue the state's side, but the judge held up her hand to signal me to stay in place. She then quickly dispensed with Royce's motion.

  "Motion denied," Breitman said. "The court holds that the evidence presented by the prosecution is sufficient for the jury to consider. Mr. Royce, are you ready to proceed with the defense?"

  "I am, Your Honor."

  "Okay, sir, then we will recall the jury now. Will you have an opening statement?"

  "A brief one, Your Honor."

  "Very well, I am going to hold you to that."

  The jurors filed in and took their assigned places. On many of them I saw expressions of anticipation. I took this as a good sign, as if they were wondering how in the hell the defense would be able to dig its way out of all the evidence the state had dumped on it. It was probably all wishful thinking on my part, but I had been studying juries for most of my adult life and I liked what I saw.

  After welcoming the jury back, the judge turned the courtroom over to Royce, reminded the jurors that this was an opening statement, not a listing of facts unless backed up later with testimony and evidence. Royce strode with full confidence to the lectern without a note or file in his hand. I knew he had the same philosophy as I did when it came to making opening statements. Look them in the eyes and don't flinch and don't back down from your theory, no matter how far-fetched or unbelievable. Sell it. If they don't think you believe it, they never will.

  His strategy of deferring his opener until the start of the defense's case would now pay dividends. He would begin the day and his case by delivering to the jury a statement that didn't have to be true, that could be as outlandish as anything ever heard in the courtroom. As long as he kept the jury riding along, nothing else really mattered.

  "Ladies and gentlemen of the jury, good morning. Today begins a new phase of the trial. The defense phase. This is when we start to tell you our side of the story, and believe me, we have another side to almost everything the prosecution has offered you over the past three days.

  "I am not going to take a lot of your time here because I am very eager, and Jason Jessup is very eager, to get to the evidence that the prosecution has either failed to find or chosen not to present to you. It doesn't matter which, at this point; the only things that matter are that you hear it and that it allows you to see the full picture of what transpired on Windsor Boulevard on February sixteenth, nineteen eighty-six. I urge you to listen closely, to watch closely. If you do that, you will see the truth emerge."

  I looked over at the legal pad on which Maggie had been doodling while Royce spoke. In large letters she had written WINDBAG! I thought, She hasn't seen anything yet.

  "This case," Royce continued, "is about one thing. A family's darkest secrets. You got only a glimpse of them during the prosecution's presentation. You got the tip of the iceberg from the prosecution, but today you will get the whole iceberg. Today you will get the cold hard truth. That being that Jason Jessup is the true victim here today. The victim of a family's desire to hide their darkest secret."

  Maggie leaned toward me and whispered, "Brace yourself."

  I nodded. I knew exactly where we were going.

  "This trial is about a monster who killed a child. A monster who defiled one young girl and was going to move on to the next when something went wrong and he killed that child. This trial is about the family that was so fearful of that monster that they went along with the plan to cover up the crime and point the finger elsewhere. At an innocent man."

  Royce pointed righteously at Jessup as he said this last line. Maggie shook her head in disgust, a calcu
lated move for the jury.

  "Jason, would you please stand up?" Royce said.

  His client did as instructed and turned fully to the jury, his eyes boldly scanning from face to face, not flinching or looking away.

  "Jason Jessup is an innocent man," Royce said with the requisite outrage in his voice. "He was the fall guy. An innocent man caught in an impromptu plan to cover up the worst kind of crime, the taking of a child's life."

  Jessup sat down and Royce paused so his words would burn into every juror's conscience. It was highly theatrical and planned that way.

  "There are two victims here," he finally said. "Melissa Landy is a victim. She lost her life. Jason Jessup is also a victim because they are trying to take his life. The family conspired against him and then the police followed their lead. They ignored the evidence and planted their own. And now after twenty-four years, after witnesses are gone and memories have dimmed, they've come calling for him..."

  Royce cast his head down as if tremendously burdened by the truth. I knew he would now wrap things up.

  "Ladies and gentlemen of the jury, we are here for only one reason. To seek the truth. Before the end of this day, you will know the truth about Windsor Boulevard. You will know that Jason Jessup is an innocent man."

  Royce paused again, then thanked the jury and moved back to his seat. In what I was sure was a well-rehearsed moment, Jessup put his arm around his lawyer's shoulders, gave him a squeeze and thanked him.

  But the judge gave Royce little time to savor the moment or the slick delivery of his opening statement. She told him to call his first witness. I turned in my seat and saw Bosch standing in the back of the courtroom. He gave me the nod. I had sent him to get Sarah Ann Gleason from the hotel as soon as Royce had informed me upon arriving at court that she would be his first witness.

  "The defense calls Sarah Ann Gleason to the stand," Royce said, putting the accent on defense in a way that suggested that this was an unexpected turnabout.

  Bosch stepped out of the courtroom and quickly returned with Gleason. He walked her down the aisle and through the gate. She went the rest of the way on her own. She again was dressed for court informally, wearing a white peasant blouse and a pair of jeans.

  Gleason was reminded by the judge that she was still under oath and turned over to Royce. This time when he went to the lectern he carried a thick file and a legal pad. Probably most of it--the file, at least--was just an attempt to intimidate Gleason, to make her think he had a big fat file on everything she had ever done wrong in life.

  "Good morning, Ms. Gleason."

  "Good morning."

  "Now, you testified yesterday that you were the victim of sexual abuse at the hands of your stepfather, Kensington Landy, is that correct?"

  "Yes."

  With the first word of her testimony I detected trepidation. She hadn't been allowed to hear Royce's opening statement but we had prepared Gleason for the way we thought the defense case would go. She was exhibiting fear already and this never played well with the jury. There was little Maggie and I could do. Sarah was up there on her own.

  "At what point in your life did this abuse start?"

  "When I was twelve."

  "And it ended when?"

  "When I was thirteen. Right after my sister's death."

  "I notice you didn't call it your sister's murder. You called it her death. Is there a reason for that?"

  "I'm not sure what you mean."

  "Well, your sister was murdered, correct? It wasn't an accident, was it?"

  "No, it was murder."

  "Then why did you refer to it as her death just a moment ago?"

  "I'm not sure."

  "Are you confused about what happened to your sister?"

  Maggie was on her feet objecting before Gleason could answer.

  "Counsel is badgering the witness," she said. "He's more interested in eliciting an emotional response than an answer."

  "Your Honor, I simply am trying to learn how and why this witness views this crime the way she does. It goes to state of mind of the witness. I am not interested in eliciting anything other than an answer to the question I asked."

  The judge weighed things for a moment before ruling.

  "I'm going to allow it. The witness may answer the question."

  "I'll repeat it," Royce said. "Ms. Gleason, are you confused about what happened to your sister?"

  During the exchange between lawyers and the judge, Gleason had found some resolve. She answered forcefully while hitting Royce with a hard stare of defiance.

  "No, I'm not confused about what happened. I was there. She was kidnapped by your client and after that I never saw her again. There is no confusion about that at all."

  I wanted to stand and clap. Instead, I just nodded to myself. It was a fine, fine answer. But Royce moved on, acting as though he had not been hit with the tomato.

  "There have been times in your life when you were confused, however, correct?"

  "About my sister and what happened and who took her? Never."

  "I'm talking about times you were incarcerated in mental health facilities and the psych wards of jails and prisons."

  Gleason lowered her head in full realization that she would not escape this trial without a full airing of the lost years of her life. I just had to hope she would respond in the way Maggie had told her to.

  "After the murder of my sister, many things went wrong in my life," she said.

  She then looked up directly at Royce as she continued.

  "Yes, I spent some time in those kinds of places. I think, and my counselors agreed, that it was because of what happened to Melissa."

  Good answer, I thought. She was fighting.

  "We'll get back into that later on," Royce said. "But getting back to your sister, she was twelve at the time of her murder, correct?"

  "That's right."

  "This would have been the same age you were when your stepfather began to sexually abuse you. Am I right?"

  "About the same, yes."

  "Did you warn your sister about him?"

  There was a long pause as Gleason considered her answer. This was because there was no good answer.

  "Ms. Gleason?" the judge prompted. "Please answer the question."

  "No, I didn't warn her. I was afraid to."

  "Afraid of what?" Royce asked.

  "Him. As you've already pointed out, I've been through a lot of therapy in my life. I know that it is not unusual for a child to be unable to tell anyone. You get trapped in the behavior. Trapped by fear. I've been told that many times."

  "In other words, you go along to get along."

  "Sort of. But that is a simplification. It was more--"

  "But you did live with a lot of fear in your life back then?"

  "Yes, I--"

  "Did your stepfather tell you not to tell anyone about what he was doing to you?"

  "Yes, he said--"

  "Did he threaten you?"

  "He said that if I told anyone I would be taken away from my mother and sister. He said he would make sure that the state would think my mother knew about it and they would consider her unfit. They would take Melissa and me away. Then we would get split up because foster homes couldn't always take two at a time."

  "Did you believe him?"

  "Yes, I was twelve. I believed him."

  "And it scared you, didn't it?"

  "Yes. I wanted to stay with my fam--"

  "Wasn't it that same fear and control that your stepfather had over you that made you go along to get along after he killed your sister?"

  Again Maggie jumped up to object, stating that the question was leading and assumed facts not in evidence. The judge agreed and sustained the objection.

  Undeterred, Royce went at Gleason relentlessly.

  "Isn't it true that you and your mother did and said exactly what your stepfather told you to in the cover-up of Melissa's murder?"

  "No, that's not--"

  "He told you to s
ay it was a tow truck driver and that you were to pick one of the men the police brought to the house."

  "No! He didn't--"

  "Objection!"

  "There was no hide-and-seek game outside the house, was there? Your sister was murdered inside the house by Kensington Landy. Isn't that true!"

  "Your Honor!"

  Maggie was now shouting.

  "Counsel is badgering the witness with these leading questions. He doesn't want her answers. He just wants to deliver his lies to the jury!"

  The judge looked from Maggie to Royce.

  "All right, everyone just calm down. The objection is sustained. Mr. Royce, ask the witness one question at a time and allow her the time to answer. And you will not ask leading questions. Need I remind you, you called her as a witness. If you wanted to lead her you should've conducted a cross-examination when you had the opportunity."

  Royce put on his best look of contrition. It must've been difficult.

  "I apologize for getting carried away, Your Honor," he said. "It won't happen again."

  It didn't matter if it happened again. Royce had already gotten his point across. His purpose was not to get an admission from Gleason. In fact, he expected none. His purpose was to get his alternate theory to the jury. In that, he was being very successful.

  "Okay, let's move on," Royce said. "You mentioned earlier that you spent a considerable part of your adult life in counseling and drug rehab, not to mention incarceration. Is that correct?"

  "To a point," Gleason said. "I have been clean and sober and a--"

  "Just answer the question that was asked," Royce quickly interjected.

  "Objection," Maggie said. "She is trying to answer the question he asked, but Mr. Royce doesn't like the full answer and is trying to cut her off."

  "Let her answer the question, Mr. Royce," Breitman said tiredly. "Go ahead, Ms. Gleason."

  "I was just saying that I have been clean for seven years and a productive member of society."

  "Thank you, Ms. Gleason."

  Royce then led her through a tragic and sordid history, literally going arrest by arrest and revealing all the details of the depravity Sarah wallowed in for so long. Maggie objected often, arguing that it had little to do with Sarah's identification of Jessup, but Breitman allowed most of the questioning to continue.