“Okay,” she said.
“Meantime, how’s your weekend looking? We have to put together an answer to this.”
I pointed at the defense motion on the desk.
“Well, Harry finally got me a ride-along with the SIS tomorrow night. He’s going, too—I think his daughter has a sleepover. Other than that, I’m around.”
“Why are you going to spend all that time watching Jessup? The police have that covered.”
“Like I said before, I want to see Jessup out there when he doesn’t think anyone is watching. I would suggest that you come, too, but you’ve got Hayley.”
“I wouldn’t waste the time. But when you see Bosch, can you give him a copy of this motion? We’re going to need him to run down some of these witnesses and statements. Not all of them were in Royce’s discovery package.”
“Yeah, he played it smart. He keeps them off his witness list until they show up here. If the judge shoots down the motion, saying Gleason’s credibility is a jury question, he’ll come back with an amended witness list, saying, okay, I need to put these people in front of the jury in regard to credibility.”
“And she’ll allow it or she’ll be contradicting her own ruling. Clever Clive. He knows what he’s doing.”
“Anyway, I’ll get a copy to Harry, but I think he’s still chasing those old cases.”
“Doesn’t matter. The trial is the priority. We need complete backgrounds on these people. You want to deal with him or do you want me to?”
In our divvying up of pretrial duties I had given Maggie the responsibility of prepping for defense witnesses. All except Jessup. If he testified, he was still mine.
“I’ll talk to him,” she said.
She furrowed her brow. It was a habit I’d seen before.
“What?”
“Nothing. I’m just thinking about how to attack this. I think we throw in a motion in limine, seeking to limit Royce on the impeachable stuff. We argue that the events of her life in between are not relevant to credibility if her identification of Jessup now matches her identification back then.”
I shook my head.
“I would argue that you’re infringing on my client’s sixth amendment right to cross-examine his accuser. The judge might limit some of this stuff if it’s repetitive, but don’t count on her disallowing it.”
She pursed her lips as she recognized that I was right.
“It’s still worth a try,” I said. “Everything is worth a try. In fact, I want to drown Royce in paper. Let’s hit him back with a phonebook to wade through.”
She looked at me and smiled.
“What?”
“I like it when you get all angry and righteous.”
“You haven’t seen anything yet.”
She looked away before it went a step further.
“Where do you want to set up shop this weekend?” she asked. “Remember, you have Hayley. She’s not going to like it if we work the entire weekend.”
I had to think about that for a moment. Hayley loved museums. To the point that I was tired of going to the same museums over and over. She also loved movies. I would need to check and see if a new movie was out.
“Bring her to my house in the morning and be prepared to work on our response. We can maybe trade off. I’ll take her to a movie or something in the afternoon and then you go on and do your thing with the SIS. We’ll make it work.”
“Okay, that’s a deal.”
“Or…”
“Or what?”
“You could bring her over tonight and we could have a little dinner celebrating our kid making second honors. And we might even get a little work on this done.”
“And I stay over, is that what you mean?”
“Sure, if you want.”
“You wish, Haller.”
“I do.”
“By the way, it was first honors. You better have it right when you see her tonight.”
I smiled.
“Tonight? You mean that?”
“I think so.”
“Then don’t worry. I’ll have everything right.”
Twenty-two
Saturday, March 20, 8:00 P.M.
Because Bosch had mentioned that a prosecutor wanted to join the SIS surveillance, Lieutenant Wright arranged his schedule to work Saturday night and be the driver of the car the visitors were assigned to. The pickup point was in Venice at a public parking lot six blocks off the beach. Bosch met McPherson there and then he put a radio call in to Wright, saying they were ready and waiting. Fifteen minutes later a white SUV entered the lot and drove up to them. Bosch gave McPherson the front seat and he climbed into the back. He wasn’t being chivalrous. The long bench seat would allow him to stretch out during the long night of surveillance.
“Steve Wright,” the lieutenant said, offering McPherson his hand.
“Maggie McPherson. Thanks for letting me come along.”
“No sweat. We always like it when the District Attorney’s Office takes an interest. Let’s hope tonight is worth your while.”
“Where’s Jessup now?”
“When I left he was at the Brig on Abbot Kinney. He likes crowded places, which works in our favor. I have a couple guys inside and a few more on the street. We’re kind of used to his rhythm now. He hits a place, waits to be recognized and for people to start buying him drinks, then he moves on—quickly if he isn’t recognized.”
“I guess I’m more interested in his late-night travels than his drinking habits.”
“It’s good that he’s out drinking,” Bosch said from the backseat. “There’s a causal relationship. The nights he takes in alcohol are usually the nights he goes up to Mulholland.”
Wright nodded in agreement and headed the SUV out of the lot. He was a perfect surveillance man because he didn’t look like a cop. In his late fifties with glasses, a thinning hairline and always two or three pens in his shirt pocket, he looked more like an accountant. But he had been with the SIS for more than two decades and had been in on several of the squad’s kills. Every five years or so the Times did a story on the SIS, usually analyzing its kill record. In the last exposé Bosch remembered reading, the paper had labeled Wright “SIS’s unlikely chief gunslinger.” While the reporters and editors behind the story probably viewed that as an editorial putdown, Wright wore it like a badge of honor. He had the sobriquet printed below his name on his business card. In quotes, of course.
Wright drove down Abbot Kinney Boulevard and past the Brig, which was located in a two-story building on the east side of the street. He went two blocks down and made a U-turn. He came back up the street and pulled to the curb in front of a fire hydrant a half block from the bar.
The lighted sign outside the Brig depicted a boxer in a ring, his red gloves up and ready. It was an image that seemed at odds with the name of the bar, but Bosch knew the story behind it. As a much younger man he had lived in the neighborhood. He knew the sign with the boxer was put up by a former owner who had bought out the original owners. The new man was a retired fighter and had decorated the interior with a boxing motif. He also put the sign up out front. There was still a mural on the side of the building that depicted the fighter and his wife, but they were long gone now.
“This is Five,” Wright said. “What’s our status?”
He was talking to the microphone clipped to the sun visor over his head. Bosch knew there was a foot button on the floor that engaged it. The return speaker was under the dash. The radio setup in the cars allowed the surveillance cops to keep their hands free while driving and, more important, helped them maintain their cover. Talking into a handheld rover was a dead giveaway. The SIS was too good for that.
“Three,” a voice said over the radio. “Retro is still in the location along with One and Two.”
“Roger that,” Wright said.
“Retro?” McPherson said.
“Our name for him,” Wright said. “Our freqs are pretty far down the bandwidth and on the FCC registry they’re l
isted as DWP channels, but you never know who might be listening. We don’t use the names of people or locations on the air.”
“Got it.”
It wasn’t even nine yet. Bosch wasn’t expecting Jessup to leave anytime soon, especially if people were buying him drinks. As they settled in, Wright seemed to like McPherson and liked informing her about procedures and the art of high-level surveillance. She might have been bored with it but she never let on.
“See, once we establish a subject’s rhythms and routines we can react much better. Take this place, for example. The Brig is one of three or four places Retro hits sort of regularly. We’ve assigned different guys to different bars so they can go in while he’s in the location and be like regulars. The two guys I’ve got right now in the Brig are the same two guys that always go in there. And two other guys would go into Townhouse when he’s there and two others have James Beach. It goes like that. If Retro notices them he’ll think it’s because he’s seen them in there before and they’re regulars in the place. Now if he saw the same guy at two different places, he’d start getting suspicious.”
“I understand, Lieutenant. Sounds like the smart way to do it.”
“Call me Steve.”
“Okay, Steve. Can your people inside communicate?”
“Yes, but they’re deaf.”
“Deaf?”
“We’ve all got body mikes. You know, like the Secret Service? But we don’t put in the earpieces when we’re in play inside a place like a bar. Too obvious. So they call in their positions when possible but they don’t hear anything coming back unless they pull the receiver up from under their collar and put it in. Unfortunately, it’s not like TV where they just put the bean in their ear and there’s no wire.”
“I see. And do your men actually drink while in a bar on a surveillance?”
“A guy in a place like that ordering a Coke or a glass of water is going to stand out as suspicious. So they order booze. But then they nurse it. Luckily, Retro likes to go to crowded places. Makes it easier to maintain cover.”
While the small talk continued in the front seat, Bosch pulled his phone and started what some would consider a conversation of small talk himself. He texted his daughter. Though he knew there were several sets of eyes on the Brig and even inside on Jessup, he looked up and checked the door of the bar every few seconds.
Howzit going? Having fun?
Madeline was staying overnight at her friend Aurora Smith’s house. It was only a few blocks from home but Bosch would not be nearby if she needed him. It was several minutes before she grudgingly answered the text. But they had a deal. She must answer his calls and texts, or her freedom—what she called her leash—would be shortened.
Everything’s fine. You don’t have to check on me.
Yes I do. I’m your father. Don’t stay up too late.
K.
And that was it. A child’s shorthand in a shorthand relationship. Bosch knew he needed help. There was so much he didn’t know. At times they seemed fine and everything appeared to be perfect. Other times he was sure she was going to sneak out the door and run away. Living with his daughter had resulted in his love for her growing more than he thought was possible. Thoughts of her safety as well as hopes for her happy future invaded his mind at all times. His longing to make her life better and take her far past her own history had at times become a physical ache in his chest. Still, he couldn’t seem to reach across the aisle. The plane was bouncing and he kept missing.
He put his phone away and checked the front of the Brig again. There was a crowd of smokers standing outside. Just then a voice and the sharp crack of billiard balls colliding in the background came over the radio speaker.
“Coming out. Retro is coming out.”
“This seems early,” Wright said.
“Does he smoke?” McPherson asked. “Maybe he’s just—”
“Not that we’ve seen.”
Bosch kept his eyes on the door and soon it pushed open. A man he recognized even from a distance as Jessup stepped out and headed along the sidewalk. Abbot Kinney slashed in a northwesterly direction across Venice. He was heading that way.
“Where did he park?” Bosch asked.
“He didn’t,” Wright said. “He only lives a few blocks from here. He walked over.”
They watched in silence after that. Jessup walked two blocks on Abbot Kinney, passing a variety of restaurants, coffee shops and galleries. The sidewalk was busy. Almost every place was still open for Saturday-night business. He stepped into a coffee shop called Abbot’s Habit. Wright got on the radio and assigned one of his men to enter it but before that could happen, Jessup stepped back out, coffee in hand, and proceeded on foot again.
Wright started the SUV and pulled into traffic going the opposite direction. He made a U-turn when he was two blocks further down and away from Jessup’s view, should he happen to turn around. All the while he maintained constant radio contact with the other followers. Jessup had an invisible net around him. Even if he knew it was there he couldn’t lose it.
“He’s heading home,” a radio voice reported. “Might be an early night.”
Abbot Kinney, named for the man who built Venice more than a century earlier, became Brooks Avenue, which then intersected with Main Street. Jessup crossed Main and headed down one of the walk streets where automobiles could not travel. Wright was ready for this and directed two of the tail cars over to Pacific Avenue so they could pick him up when he came through.
Wright pulled to a stop at Brooks and Main and waited for the report that Jessup had passed through and was on Pacific. After two minutes he started to get anxious and went to the radio.
“Where is he, people?”
There was no response. No one had Jessup. Wright quickly sent somebody in.
“Two, you go in. Use the twenty-three.”
“Got it.”
McPherson looked over the seatback at Bosch and then at Wright.
“The twenty-three?”
“We have a variety of tactics we use. We don’t describe them on the air.”
He pointed through the windshield.
“That’s the twenty-three.”
Bosch saw a man wearing a red windbreaker and carrying an insulated pizza bag cut across Main and into the walk street named Breeze Avenue. They waited and finally the radio burst to life.
“I’m not seeing him. I walked all the way through and he’s not—”
The transmission cut off. Wright said nothing. They waited and then the same voice came back in a whisper.
“I almost walked into him. He came out between two houses. He was pulling up his zipper.”
“Okay, did he make you?” Wright asked.
“That’s a negative. I asked for directions to Breeze Court and he said this was Breeze Avenue. We’re cool. He should be coming through now.”
“This is Four. We got him. He’s heading toward San Juan.”
The fourth car was one of the vehicles Wright had put on Pacific. Jessup was living in an apartment on San Juan Avenue between Speedway and the beach.
Bosch felt the momentary tension in his gut start to ease. Surveillance work was sometimes tough to take. Jessup had ducked between two houses to take a leak and it had caused a near panic.
Wright redirected the teams to the area around San Juan Avenue between Pacific and Speedway. Jessup used a key to enter the second-floor apartment where he was staying and the teams quickly moved into place. It was time to wait again.
Bosch knew from past surveillance gigs that the main attribute a good watcher needed was a comfort with silence. Some people are compelled to fill the void. Harry never was and he doubted anyone in the SIS was. He was curious to see how McPherson would do, now that the surveillance 101 lesson from Wright was over and there was nothing left but to wait and watch.
Bosch pulled his phone to see if he had missed a text from his daughter but it was clear. He decided not to pester her with another check-in and put the phone
away. The genius of his giving McPherson the front seat now came into play. He turned and put his legs up and across the seat, stretching himself into a lounging position with his back against the door. McPherson glanced back and smiled in the darkness of the car.
“I thought you were being a gentleman,” she said. “You just wanted to stretch out.”
Bosch smiled.
“You got me.”
Everyone was silent after that. Bosch thought about what McPherson had said while they had waited in the parking lot to be picked up by Wright. First she handed him a copy of the latest defense motion, which he locked in the trunk of his car. She told him he needed to start vetting the witnesses and their statements, looking for ways to turn their threats to the case into advantages for the prosecution. She said she and Haller had worked all day crafting a response to the attempt to disqualify Sarah Ann Gleason from testifying. The judge’s ruling on the issue could decide the outcome of the trial.
It always bothered Bosch when he saw justice and the law being manipulated by smart lawyers. His part in the process was pure. He started at a crime scene and followed the evidence to a killer. There were rules along the way but at least the route was clear most of the time. But once things moved into the courthouse, they took on a different shape. Lawyers argued over interpretations and theories and procedures. Nothing seemed to move in a straight line. Justice became a labyrinth.
How could it be, he wondered, that an eyewitness to a horrible crime would not be allowed to testify in court against the accused? He had been a cop more than thirty-five years and he still could not explain how the system worked.
“This is Three. Retro’s on the move.”
Bosch was jarred out of his thoughts. A few seconds went by and the next report came from another voice.
“He’s driving.”
Wright took over.
“Okay, we get ready for an auto tail. One, get out to Main and Rose, Two, go down to Pacific and Venice. Everybody else, sit tight until we have his direction.”
A few minutes later they had their answer.
The Lincoln Lawyer Collection Page 94