Resurrection Walk

8

The commune consisted of a long row of side-by-side attorney offices on the right and an open space with work pods on the left for support staff. Only I didn’t see any support staff.

Each of the individual offices had a small frame mounted to the right of the door where an attorney could slot in or slide out his or her business card. It was a commune for legal transients, lawyers who came and went on the whims of cases and clients.

I looked at the cards as I walked down the row. All of them featured the standard scales-of-justice symbol with little variation. Some had a tiny photo of a smiling or seriously staring attorney. No embossing. The quality of all the cards suggested that the lawyers were attempting to keep costs down while also trying to project some semblance of success and dignity in the shared office space.

Six offices down, I saw the first card embossed in silver. It belonged to Frank Silver, of course, and the embossed card was either left over from better times or an effort to stand out from the others in the legal row. The office door was open but I reached in and knocked on it anyway. A man at a faux-wood-veneer desk looked up from a laptop screen.

“Frank Silver?”

“That’s me.”

I saw a flash of recognition in his eyes. He was fifteen years my junior with a thin build and dark curly hair. I guessed that the walk from here to the courthouse kept him in fighting form.

“You. You’re the Lincoln Lawyer.”

I entered the room and extended my hand. We shook.

“Mickey Haller. Were we on a case previously?”

“Frank Silver. No, I recognize you from the billboards. ‘Reasonable doubt for a reasonable fee’ — surprised the bar lets you get away with that one. Have a seat.”

I looked down at the one chair available for a visitor in the cramped office and saw a foot-high stack of files on it.

“Oh, sorry, wait a second,” Silver said. “Let me get that stuff out of the way.”

He came around the desk. I stepped back in the small space so he could get to the chair. He lifted the stack, took it back with him around the desk, and put it down next to his computer.

“Okay, now have a seat. What can I do for you? Need a tune-up?”

Silver laughed.

“What?” I asked as I sat down.

“You know, Lincoln Lawyer,” Silver said. “Need a tune-up.”

He laughed at his joke again. I didn’t. I was distracted by the wall behind him. It was lined with shelves containing lawbooks and penal codes, all beautifully leather bound with embossed titles on the spines. But it was all fake — a fake law library on wallpaper. He noticed my stare and glanced back at it.

“Oh, yeah,” he said. “Looks real on Zoom.”

I nodded.

“Got it,” I said. “That’s good.”

I pointed to the jumbled stack of files he had just moved to the desk.

“I’m here to help you declutter,” I said.

He cocked his head, unamused and worried that I was serious.

“How so?” he said.

“I need to pick up a file from you. A closed case your former client has asked me to take a look at.”

“Really? What case is that?”

“Lucinda Sanz. You remember her?”

Surprise played across Silver’s face. It wasn’t a name he was expecting.

“Lucinda — of course I remember her. But...”

“Yeah, she pled nolo. But now she wants me to take a look at it. If I could get the files on the case, I’ll get out of your hair and be on my—”

“Whoa, wait a second. What are you talking about? You can’t just come in here and take my case like that.”

“No, what are you talking about? It’s a closed case. She pleaded and has been in Chino for almost five years.”

“But she’s still my client.”

“She was your client. But she reached out to me. She wants me to take a look at her case. If you remember the case, then you remember she never said she did it. And she still doesn’t.”

“Yeah, but I got her that sweet deal. She would be doing life without if it weren’t for the dispo I got her. Manslaughter with a midrange sentence.”

I knew what this was about. Or I thought I did.

“Look, Frank,” I said, “if you’re worried about a five-oh-four, fear not. That’s not what this is about. I’m looking for actual innocence and whether I can prove it. That’s it. This is a habeas case to me or it’s nothing. If it’s a pass, I’ll send the files right back to you.”

One of the more disappointing and frustrating parts of being a criminal defense lawyer is being named in a 504 motion to vacate a conviction based on ineffective assistance of counsel — bad lawyering. No matter how well you think you represented your client or how good you think the result was, if your client sits in prison long enough, you’ll be named in a Hail Mary effort to overturn the conviction. And no lawyer wants that. Not only can it damage a professional reputation, but it takes time to review and defend one’s steps in a case.

“Then why did she go to you?” Silver asked. “If she’s not going to claim ineffective assistance, she should have come to me.”

“I had a case last year,” I said. “It blew up in the news pretty big. I got a guy out of prison on a habeas. I proved actual innocence. She saw the story somehow in Chino and wrote me a letter. A lot of inmates wrote me letters. My investigator did some preliminary checking on the Sanz case and recommended I take it to the next step. To do that, I need the files. Whatever you’ve got. I need to know everything there is to know about the case.”

Silver was quiet for a long moment.

“So?” I said. “Can I get the files? I can have them copied and the originals back to you by the end of the day. I don’t see the big deal here.”

“That won’t be necessary,” Silver said. “Since we’re partnering on it.”

“Excuse me?”

“Partners. You and me. Whatever happens, wherever you take it, we’re partners.”

“Uh, no, we’re not. Lucinda Sanz has engaged me on this. Not you. Not us. And there’s no money. I’m not charging her a dime. It’s a pro bono case.”

“It’s pro bono now. But if you get her out, the sky’s the limit on a false-imprisonment claim.”

“Look, if you want me to, I’ll have my investigator email a copy of her letter asking me to take her case. She’s entitled to her file and if you refuse to give it up, that’s an ethics violation. You’ll have to deal with a bar complaint that’ll stick on your record for five years.”

Silver smiled and shook his head dismissively.

“I’m not worried about a bar grievance,” he said. “Last I heard, they’re still working off a COVID backlog over there at the California Bar. So you go ahead and file your complaint and I’m sure they’ll jump right on it — in maybe three years.”

He had me. I was silent, trying to work out a countermove. I was unprepared for an unethical lawyer trying to extort me and his former client.

“Look, I’m not trying to be an asshole, okay?” Silver said. “But I know what this is. I know what you’re doing.”

“Really?” I said. “What am I doing?”

“You’re paying for all those billboards out there, right? The bus wraps, the benches, all of it. That case you had last year where you sprung the guy on the murder rap? How much you get on the wrongful-conviction lawsuit that followed? The city must have cut you a nice juicy check on that one. I’m guessing high six figures.”

“Wrong. There’s been no settlement in that case.”

“Doesn’t matter. The case is a rainmaker and you and I know it. And there’s nothing wrong with that. But now you come here and want to make the money rain with my case and my work, and fair is fair.”

“Your work? You walked her into prison. How much work was that?”

“I got her manslaughter for killing a deputy. That was a fucking miracle.”

“Sure.”

“I want my piece.”

“What you’re talking about is a long shot in a dark night. She pleaded nolo — you remember that, right? You can’t do a whole lot on a wrongful-conviction suit when the client went nolo. The State’s defense will be that she consented to go to prison and that was on your advice.”

“But you’re the Lincoln Lawyer. They see you coming, they get out the checkbook. They run scared from you.”

His sincerity was as real as the lawbooks on the wall behind him.

“I don’t want you anywhere near this case,” I said. “So what’s it going to take to get you to go away?”

Silver nodded, pleased that he had won. I immediately regretted that I had faltered and given him the opening.

“Partners, right?” he asked. “I want half.”

“No way,” I said. “I’d rather walk away from it. I’ll give you ten points, that’s it.”

I stood up, ready to go.

“Twenty-five,” he said.

I headed toward the doorway.

“Come on,” Silver said. “A twenty-five/seventy-five split is a major payday for you. I invested a lot in that case and got nothing out of it. I deserve this.”

I stopped at the door and looked back at him.

“You don’t deserve shit,” I said. “You missed things and you put your client in prison. It was only a good deal if she was guilty. But she’s not. I could file an action for replevin, which might then blow up into a matter before the California Bar.”

He stared at me and I could tell he wasn’t clear on the definition of replevin.

“I could go ask a judge to order you to turn over the files,” I said. “But, you know what, it doesn’t help her cause to make you an adversary.”

If I ever got the Sanz case into a habeas hearing, I might need Silver to explain his moves to a judge.

“I’ll tell you what,” I said. “I’ll give you twenty-five percent of my fee after costs. Take it or leave it.”

“I’ll take it,” Silver said. “As long as I get to audit the costs.”

He had no idea how creative Lorna Taylor could be in building a case-cost summary.

“Not a problem,” I said. “Now, where are the files?” I didn’t expect the file on a case closed five years ago to be in the office.

“It’ll take me a few minutes,” Silver said. “I have a storage locker in the garage here.”

“Nice,” I said. “I’ll wait.”

Silver got up and came around the desk.

“I want one other thing,” he said.

“No, we have a deal,” I said.

He was getting something out of his pocket.

“Relax, it won’t cost you a dime. I just want a selfie with the Lincoln Lawyer.”

He pulled out a cell phone. He quickly and expertly opened the camera app, held the phone up at an angle, came in close, and wrapped his free arm around my back. He took the photo before I could push him away.

“I’ll text you a copy,” he said.

“No, thanks,” I said. “Just go get the files.”

He headed toward the exit. I reached over to the frame on the outside wall and slid the silver-embossed business card out of the slot. I put it in my pocket. I thought I might have a use for it somewhere down the line.

9

Bosch and the Lincoln were out front at the curb. I opened the back passenger door, not by mistake, and saw a white bag on the seat. I moved it over and got in, caught the stink-eye from Bosch in the rearview.

“I got the files and I have to spread them out back here,” I said. “So, no disrespect, but I need to know what there is to know by the time we get to Chino.”

“So we’re going?” Bosch asked.

“If you’re up for it. You’re usually... you know, dragging the day after UCLA.”

“Maybe they gave me the placebo. I feel fine.”

I doubted that. I thought he might be hiding the exhaustion he usually exhibited. Or maybe it was the adrenaline from the case that had him running in high gear.

“If you’re sure, then we’re going. If I get through this before we get there, you can pull over and we’ll trade places and you can look through it. Cool?”

“Cool.”

Bosch pulled away from the curb and headed south toward Alameda.

“You know the way, right?” I asked.

“Been there many times,” Bosch responded. “If you get hungry, I got po’ boys from Little Jewel in that bag back there.”

“Almost sat on them. Oyster or shrimp?”

“Shrimp. You want me to go back for oysters?”

“No, I don’t like oysters. Just wanted to make sure.”

“I don’t like them either.”

The women’s prison in Chino was about an hour out from downtown. While Bosch worked his way toward the 10 freeway to go east, I took the band off the pocket file and opened it up to see what I had gotten from Silver. Immediately I realized I’d been sandbagged. The first three pockets contained documents, but the four pockets behind them contained completely unused legal pads. Silver had put them in the pocket folder to give it some heft when he handed it to me. An abundance of documents was an indicator of time and effort spent on a case. It seemed obvious that Silver was attempting during the handoff to disguise how little he’d done for Lucinda Sanz. Before I left the office, he’d made me sign a receipt acknowledging that he had given me Sanz’s entire file. Score one for Silver. I should have seen that coming and gone through the file before signing.

“Fucking weasel.”

Bosch looked at me in the rearview again.

“Who?”

“Second-Place Silver.”

“What do you mean?”

“He stuffed the case file with blank legal pads so I’d think he was giving me a lot of work product.”

“Why? Did you make some kind of deal with him?”

“I had to give him twenty-five points after costs in trade for the file. Tell you what, though, I’m going to take every dime I can think of off the top. Including what I pay you.”

From my angle on Bosch, I thought I saw him smile.

“You think it’s funny?”

“I think it’s ironic. One defense lawyer calling another a weasel. Welcome to my world for forty years.”

“Yeah, well, don’t forget who’s signing your paychecks and who put you on the health plan.”

“Don’t worry, I won’t.”

“Speaking of which, how’d it go at UCLA yesterday?”

“Got the infusion, they took some blood, and then I was out of there.”

“Glad you made it. The stuff in the infusion is what they’re testing?”

“Yeah, that’s the isotope. They hang a bag, plug a line into my arm, and pump it in. Twenty to thirty minutes and I’m done, depending on how much of a dose they’re giving. That changes week to week.”

“And they draw blood to see if it’s working?”

“Not really. They’re making sure my platelets aren’t too low — whatever that means. And checking for kidney and liver damage. In about thirty days, they’ll go into the bone for a biopsy. That’ll be the real test.”

“Keep me informed, please.”

“I will. Back to Sanz now. You gave Silver twenty-five points. That mean you think there’s money to be made on the case?”

“Not really. If her conviction is vacated, she ought to be able to recover statutory compensation for an erroneous conviction, but there’s not much a lawyer gets from that. And I don’t see much chance of success for a civil action for wrongful incarceration because she entered a plea accepting imprisonment. Second-Place Silver doesn’t have much experience keeping people out of prison and none whatsoever getting them out. He’s just hoping for an undeserved windfall that will never come.”

I turned my attention back to what in the pocket file was useful. The first of the three inside files was a client-information form — a standard document filled out with a new client that contained addresses, names of relatives, and credit card information. It was largely used so a lawyer could know where his client was at any time and as a means, hopefully, of ensuring payment for work done. In this case, Lucinda Sanz never made bail so her whereabouts were never in question. And since Silver had told me that he had made very little off the case, I assumed that the two credit cards listed on the form had low limits and were tapped out early on.

I wondered why Sanz hadn’t asked for a public defender instead of paying for a midlevel lawyer, but that was water under the bridge. I moved on to the next pocket and here I found a transcript of the interview Lucinda had given the sheriff’s investigators assigned to the Roberto Sanz case.

I read it from the top, the moment Lucinda foolishly waived her rights and agreed to talk to investigators, identified as Gabriella Samuels and Gary Barnett. The investigators had asked general, open-ended questions and let Lucinda run with them in her answers. It was a familiar ploy. The prisons were filled with people who had literally talked themselves through the gates. That is, instead of keeping their mouths shut, they decided to explain their actions or reasons. But once they waived their rights, they were done for.

During the interview, Lucinda told the same story Bosch had pulled from the presentencing report. At least that was a good thing. Her story of what happened that night in Quartz Hill had been consistent over time.

Samuels: He left through the front door?

Sanz: Yes, the front.

Samuels: And what did you do then?

Sanz: I slammed the door and locked the dead bolt. I didn’t want him coming back in and I knew he had kept a key even though he wasn’t supposed to.

Samuels: Then what?

Sanz: I was standing there and I heard a shot. And then there was another shot. I was scared. I thought he was shooting at the house. I ran back to my boy’s room and we hid there. I called 911 and waited.

Samuels: How did you know they were gunshots?

Sanz: I don’t know. I guess I didn’t know for sure but I’ve heard gunshots before. Growing up. And when we first got married, Robbie and I went to the gun range a few times.

Samuels: Did you hear anything else besides the two shots? Any voices? Anything like that?

Sanz: No, I didn’t hear anything. Just the shots.

Samuels: I saw that the front door has a peephole. Did you look out after the shots?

Sanz: No, I thought maybe he was shooting at the door. I backed away.

Samuels: Are you sure?

Sanz: Yes, I know what I did.

Barnett: Do you own a gun, Mrs. Sanz?

Sanz: No, I don’t like guns. When we divorced, I told Robbie to take all the guns. I don’t want them.

Barnett: So you’re saying there were no guns in the house?

Sanz: Yes. No guns.

Samuels: What did you do after you called 911?

Sanz: I waited in the bedroom with my son. And then when I heard the sirens coming, I told him to stay in the room and I went to look out the front window. That’s when I saw the deputies, and Robbie was on the ground.

Barnett: Did you shoot him?

Sanz: No. Never. I wouldn’t do that. He’s the father of my son.

Barnett: But you see what we’re looking at here, right? You two argue, he leaves the house and gets shot in the back twelve feet from the front door. What are we supposed to think?

Sanz: I did not do this.

Barnett: Well, who did it if it wasn’t you?

Sanz: I don’t know. We’ve been divorced three years. I don’t know who he was with or what he was doing.

Barnett: Where’s the gun?

Sanz: I told you, I don’t have a gun.

Barnett: We’re going to find it, but it would be better for you if you just told us and cleared this up right now.

Sanz: I didn’t do it.

Samuels: Were you afraid that he was going to the car to get his gun?

Sanz: No. I thought he already had his gun and shot at the house.

Samuels: But you said before that you were afraid. What were you afraid of in that moment?

Sanz: I keep telling you. I was afraid he was shooting at the house. We’d just had a big argument. I could not take Eric to my mother’s, because we had missed dinner because he was so late.

Samuels: Did he tell you why he was late?

Sanz: He said he had a work meeting and I know he lied. The gang team never works on Sunday.

Samuels: So you yelled at him?

Sanz: A little bit. I was mad at him, yes.

Samuels: Did he yell at you?

Sanz: Yes. He said I was a bitch.

Samuels: Is that why you got mad?

Sanz: No, no, don’t put words... I was mad at him because he was so late. That’s it.

Samuels: Lucinda, if this was about you feeling threatened, we can work with you on that. You’re scared. He has guns. Did he tell you he was going to his car to get a gun?

Sanz: I told you, no. He was leaving. I told him to leave and he was leaving. I locked the door and that was it.

Barnett: It doesn’t add up, Lucinda. You have to help us here. He’s in your house. He walks out and he is shot from behind. Was somebody else in your house?

Sanz: No, nobody. Just me and Eric.

Barnett: Do you know what gunshot residue is?

Sanz: No.

Barnett: Well, when you fire a gun, microscopic particles explode out of the gun. You can’t see them but they get on your hands and your arms and your clothes. Remember a deputy took samples from you at the house? He wiped your hands with those little round pads?

Sanz: It was a she. The deputy who did that.

Barnett: Well, the test came back positive. You had gunshot residue on your hands and that means you fired a weapon, Lucinda. So stop all the lies and talk to us. Work with us here. What happened?

Sanz: I told you, it wasn’t me. I wouldn’t shoot him.

Barnett: How do you explain the gunshot residue?

Sanz: I don’t know. I can’t. I think I want to have a lawyer now.

Barnett: Are you sure about that? We could clear all of this up right now so you can get back home with your boy.

Sanz: I didn’t do this.

Samuels: Last chance, Lucinda. You call a lawyer and we can’t help you anymore.

Sanz: I want to call a lawyer.

Barnett: Okay, this is over. You’re under arrest for the murder of Roberto Sanz. Please —

Sanz: No, I didn’t.

Barnett: Stand up now. We’re going to book you. And your lawyer will come see you.

I put the transcript aside and looked out the window. The freeway was elevated out here and I could see the tops of businesses and signs on poles high enough to be seen by the people in cars speeding by. I was angry. I had yet to meet Lucinda Sanz but I could tell she was unsophisticated in the ways of the police, despite having been married to a law officer. She’d tried to hold her own during the interview. She’d denied killing her ex. But she’d also given them many of the things they needed to make a case against her. She had talked herself through the gates.

“These guys...” I said. “Not very original.”

“Who?” Bosch asked.

“The interviewers, Samuels and Barnett.”

“How so?”

“Just leading her down the garden path with lies and false empathy. The old we-can-work-this-out routine. Just makes me mad.”

“You’d be surprised how often that works. Most killers... they want to be understood.”

“And they talk themselves right into jail.”

“What did they lie to her about?”

“More like what didn’t they lie to her about. But for starters they ran the GSR game on her. She didn’t bite.”

“Not sure that was a game if they told her she tested positive.”

“It better be or we have a problem with this whole innocence thing. Why don’t you think they were gaming her?”

“It was in one of the newspaper stories I read. Back when I was... well, we usually didn’t put our lies in the press releases. So I figure that part is true. She tested positive for GSR.”

“Get off at the next exit.”

“Why?”

“We’re turning around. I’ve wasted enough time on this.”

“Because of GSR?”

“I’m looking for habeas cases. I told you that, Harry. If she had gunshot residue on her hands, then we’re fucked.”

“GSR is not an exact science. I had cases... the lawyers brought in experts with whole lists of household products they claimed would pull the same result on the swipe pad.”

“Yeah, that was the inexact-science defense. A desperate move to sow doubt with a jury that won’t get us through the courtroom door on a habeas petition.”

“Look, we’re only ten minutes away from Chino. Let’s just go talk to her.”

I looked down at the transcript again and shook my head. I was changing my opinion of Second-Place Silver. Maybe he had gotten Lucinda Sanz the best outcome possible.

“Look,” I said, “just so we’re clear. Her appellate window would have closed at least two years ago. The only way back into this case is through a habeas petition offering new evidence that supports actual innocence. Then, by the way, we have to put up or shut up. We have to prove her innocent, like we did with Ochoa. So, fine, we can eat our po’ boys and then go in and talk to her. But if it’s not there, we’re done with this one and we’ll move on to the next.”

Bosch said nothing. I waited for his eyes to show in the rearview.

“So we’re cool?” I said.

“Totally,” Bosch said. “We’re cool.”

10

We sat at a table in an attorney-client room at the prison in Chino and waited for the guards to bring in Lucinda Sanz. I could hear the muffled sounds of steel doors banging and loudspeaker commands from guards. The sounds of a prison, even a prison for women, were never pleasant, even when muffled by concrete walls and steel.

“How are you going to start with her?” Bosch asked.

“The usual,” I said. “Begin with open-enders and then narrow the focus if we hear something good. But first she’s got to sign the papers or we’re out of here.”

Before Bosch could ask any further questions, the door opened and a female guard walked Lucinda Sanz into the room. I stood up, gave her my best smile, and nodded; Bosch stayed seated. She was placed in a chair across the table from us, then one wrist was locked to a bar that was bolted to the side of the table.

“Thank you, Officer,” I said.

The guard said nothing and left the room. I lowered my eyes to Lucinda and started to sit down. She was a small woman in a short-sleeved blue jumpsuit. She had light brown skin complemented by dark brown eyes and hair tied back in a short ponytail. She wore a long-sleeved T-shirt beneath the jumpsuit, probably for warmth. She didn’t smile back at me and I thought that was because she thought we were detectives. Bosch gave off that air, even at his age. It was a non-court day, so I wore no tie.

“Lucinda, you sent me a letter. I’m Michael Haller, the attorney.”

Now she smiled and nodded.

“Yes, yes, yes,” she said. “The Lincoln Lawyer. Will you take my case?”

“Well, that’s what we’re here to talk about,” I said. “Before we start, I want you to understand a little bit about this situation. First off, this is Harry Bosch, my investigator and the one who thinks there could be merit to your claim of innocence.”

“Oh, thank you,” Sanz said. “I am innocent.”

Bosch just nodded. I noticed that she spoke with a slight accent.

“I also need to tell you something up front,” I said. “I am not promising you anything. If you agree to take me on as your attorney, we will diligently investigate your case, and if we find a cause of action that we can take into court, then we will do that. But again, no promises. As you probably know, being innocent is not enough in court. In your situation, you must prove your innocence. In fact, at this point, you are guilty until proven innocent.”

She was nodding before I finished.

“I understand,” she said. “But I did not kill my husband.”

“Your ex-husband, you mean,” I corrected. “But let me finish. If you want me to represent you in this matter, I will need you to sign an engagement form that gives me your power of attorney and allows me to represent you in all criminal and civil matters that may arise from this case. That means if this criminal case happens to lead to a civil case, I am your attorney all the way on that. You understand?”

“Yes. I will sign.”

I opened the file I had placed on the table upon our arrival and removed the engagement letter and agreement.

“There is a fee schedule attached to this that you may want to look at before you sign,” I said.

“I don’t have money,” Sanz said.

“I understand. You don’t need money. I collect only if you collect. I get a portion for my good work in getting you money. But we don’t have to think about that. That is far off in never-never land at the moment. What is important now is seeing if we have a shot at getting you out of here.”

I slid the document across the table to her.

“Before you sign, one more thing,” I said. “The document is in English. Are you comfortable with that and with speaking English with us today?”

“Yes,” Lucinda said. “I was born here. I’ve been speaking English my whole life.”

“Okay, good. I just needed to check because I noticed a slight accent.”

“My parents came from Guadalajara. When I grew up, we spoke Spanish at home.”

I took out a pen and put it down on the document. Because one of her hands was manacled to the bar at the side of the table, I anchored the document with my hand so it wouldn’t slide when she signed it.

“Do you want to read it first?” I asked.

“No,” Sanz said. “I trust you. I know what you did for Jorge Ochoa.”

She signed the document and I slid it back across the table and into the file. She handed me the pen and I put it away.

“Thank you,” I said. “We now have an attorney-client relationship. This includes Mr. Bosch as my investigator. You can tell me anything right now and it will never be revealed outside of these four walls.”

“I understand,” Sanz said.

“And I also need to make you aware of what’s at stake here so that you can decide what the risks are and whether you want us to proceed.”

“I’m already in prison.”

“Yes, but you have a sentence that you are serving and will eventually be released from. If we move forward with a motion to reexamine your case in what is called a habeas petition, there is a risk involved. There can be three outcomes. One is that the petition is denied and you serve out your sentence. Another is that your conviction is vacated and you are set free. But there is also a third possibility: that a judge vacates your conviction but you are held to stand trial. And if that happens, you could be convicted by a jury and face a much harsher sentence — up to life without parole.”

“I don’t care. I am innocent.”

I paused for a moment to consider how quickly she had responded. No hesitation about the risks. She had said it without blinking or taking her eyes off mine. It reassured me that if this case eventually did land in a trial, Lucinda would be able to look at the jury — whether from the defense table or the witness stand — with the same indomitable stare.

“Okay,” I said. “I just want you to be aware of the risks of moving forward.”

“Thank you,” she said.

“Okay, then, like I said, we have attorney-client privilege now. Anything you say remains confidential. So I need to start by asking: Is there anything you need to tell me and that I need to know about this case?”

“I did not kill him. That’s what you need to know.”

I held her eyes for a long moment before continuing. Again, she didn’t look away as liars often do. It was another good sign.

“Then, hopefully, there is something we can do for you,” I said. “I have a few questions and then Mr. Bosch will have more. We have about forty minutes left and I want to make the best of them. Is that okay, Lucinda?”

“Yes, okay. But people call me Cindi.”

“Cindi. Okay. Cindi, why don’t we start with you telling me how you came to hire Mr. Silver as your attorney back when you were arrested?”

Sanz had to think for a moment before responding.

“I didn’t have money for a lawyer,” she finally said.

“So he was appointed?” I asked.

“No, I had the public defender. But then Mr. Silver, he went to them and he volunteered. He said he would take my case.”

“But you said you had no money. I saw that you signed a document with credit card information.”

“He told me he could get the credit cards for me and I could pay that way.”

I nodded and knew that my early assessment of Silver as a weasel had been spot-on. Lucinda Sanz was in trouble from the start.

“Okay,” I said. “Now, looking over your sentence, you got midrange plus the gun enhancement and that totaled eleven years. With good behavior, you’d do about nine years max. So here you are, more than halfway through your sentence, and your letter to me indicates a desperation to get out. Is there something going on in this place? Are you in danger? Do we need to get you moved?”

“No, this place is good. Very close to my family. But my son, he needs me now.”

“Your son. That’s Eric, right? What’s going on with him?”

“He’s with my mother in the old neighborhood.”

“How old is Eric?”

“He’s going to be fourteen.”

“Where’s the old neighborhood?”

“Boyle Heights.”

East L.A. I knew that the White Fence gang was deeply entrenched in Boyle Heights and membership recruitment started as young as twelve years old. I turned and gave Bosch a slight nod. We both understood that Lucinda Sanz wanted to get out of prison to save her son from going down that path.

“You grew up in Boyle Heights?” I asked. “How did you end up in Palmdale?”

“Quartz Hill,” Sanz said. “When my husband got out of jail division, they put him there at Antelope Valley. So we moved.”

“Was he from Boyle Heights too?” Bosch asked.

“Yes,” Sanz said. “We grew up together.”

“Was he White Fence?” Bosch asked.

“No,” Sanz said. “But his brother and his father... yes.”

“What about when he started at the sheriff’s department?” Bosch asked. “Did he join any of the deputy gangs?”

Sanz was silent for a long moment. I wished Bosch had eased into that question with a little more finesse.

“He had friends,” she said. “He told me they had cliques, you know.”

“Did Roberto join a clique?” Bosch asked.

“Not when we were married,” Sanz said. “I don’t know what happened after. But he changed.”

“How long before his death did you divorce?” I asked.

“It was three years,” Sanz said.

“What happened?” I asked. “To the marriage, I mean.”

I read the look on Sanz’s face. She wondered what this had to do with whether or not she was innocent. I wished I had used a little more finesse myself.

“Cindi, we need to know as much as we can about your relationship with the victim,” I said. “I know that it’s painful to recount all of this, but we need to hear it from you.”

She nodded.

“We just... he had girlfriends,” Sanz said. “Deputy dollies. When he started doing that, he changed. We changed, and I said, ‘That’s it.’ I don’t like to talk about it.”

“I’m sorry,” I said. “We can drop it for now. But we may need to come back to it. Do you know the names of any of these women?”

“No, I didn’t want to know them,” Sanz said.

“How did you know about them?” I asked.

“I just knew,” Sanz said. “He was different.”

“Was it a source of argument after the divorce?”

“After? No. I didn’t care what he did after we divorced.”

“So the argument that night was about him being late with Eric.”

“He was always late. On purpose.”

I nodded and looked at Bosch.

“Harry, you have more questions?” I asked.

“I have a few,” Bosch said. “Who were some of his friends in the department and at the substation?”

“He was on the gang team,” Sanz said. “They were his friends. I don’t know their names.”

“He had a tattoo on his hip,” Bosch said. “Below the beltline. Do you know when he got it?”

Sanz shook her head.

“I didn’t know about that,” she said. “He didn’t have tattoos when we were together.”

Since we had not choreographed the interview before getting there, I wasn’t sure why Bosch was trying to determine when Roberto Sanz had gotten the tattoo. I decided I’d wait and ask about it on the drive back to the city.

Bosch then asked another question I hadn’t seen coming.

“Would it be possible for me to talk to Eric?”

“Why?” Sanz responded.

“To see what he remembers about his father,” Bosch said. “And about that night.”

“No,” Sanz said emphatically. “I don’t want that. I don’t want him to be part of this.”

“But he already is, Cindi,” I said. “He was there that night. More important, he was with his father all day before coming home to you. As far as we know, no one ever talked to him about what happened that day. I want to know why his father was two hours late getting him home.”

“He’s thirteen now,” Bosch said. “Maybe he remembers something about that day that will help us. That will help you.”

Sanz pursed her lips as if she were getting ready to dig in her heels on her refusal to give permission. But then she changed course.

“I will ask him,” she said. “If he says yes, then yes, you can talk to him.”

“Good,” I said. “We’ll do our best not to upset him.”

“That will be impossible if you are asking about his father’s death,” Sanz said. “Eric loved his father. My greatest pain is for him to have his mother in prison for killing his father when I know I didn’t do it.”

“I understand,” I said and nodded. I tried to move on. “How often do you and Eric talk?”

“Once or twice each week,” Sanz said. “More if I get phone access.”

“Does he come to visit you?”

“Once a month. He comes with my mother.”

There was a momentary pause as I considered how much this woman had lost whether she was innocent or not. Bosch barged into the silent space, once again without any finesse.

“The gun is not going to show up, is it?” he asked.

Lucinda seemed baffled by the sudden change in direction. I knew that this was a police tactic — ask questions out of sequence or out of context to generate reactions and keep interview subjects from getting too comfortable.

When Lucinda didn’t answer, Bosch pressed.

“The gun used to kill your ex has never turned up,” Bosch said. “It won’t now, will it?”

“I have no idea!” Sanz yelled. “How would I know?”

“I don’t know,” Bosch said. “That’s why I asked. I’m worried that the gun could turn up while we’re in the middle of this and that could cause us and you a lot of problems.”

“I did not kill my husband and I don’t know who did,” Sanz said with a sharp edge to her voice. “And I don’t have the gun.”

She looked fixedly at Bosch until he looked away. One more time I saw the unblinking stare. I was starting to believe her. And that, I knew from experience, was a dangerous place to be.

11

I drove back. Bosch took the front passenger seat and went through the pocket file from Frank Silver, apparently to show me that a review of the case could be done without spreading it out on the rear seat. I acted like I didn’t notice and kept my eyes on the road, thinking about Lucinda Sanz and how I might be able to save her.

Going to the prison had been the right call. Seeing her in person, hearing her voice and watching her eyes, made all the difference. She became more than a person at the center of a legal case to me. She became real, and in the sincerity of her words I sensed the truth. I sensed that she might be that rarest of all creatures: an innocent client.

But that belief only left me feeling hollow as I drove back to the city. What my gut was telling me meant nothing in a court of law. I had to find a way. And though it was early in the case, I also knew that in front of me was a daunting task that would leave deep scars on me if I failed.

Bosch and I had stayed with Lucinda and questioned her until the moment when the humorless guard who had brought her into the interview room returned to take her out. Lucinda left with a piece of paper with our phone numbers on it and a promise from us to do our best in evaluating the case and quickly coming to a decision on how to proceed. That, too, would be hollow if the ultimate decision was to do nothing because there was nothing I could do.

I glanced over at Bosch. We had not spoken about Lucinda since we’d left the prison. I’d offered to drive and Bosch had taken me up on it. He got right into the pocket file once we were on the road. He barely looked up the whole way, even when I hit the brakes and the horn a few times.

“What are you thinking, Harry?” I finally asked.

“Well,” Bosch said. “I’ve sat across the table from a lot of killers over the years. Most of them can’t look you right in the eye and deny it. She scored points with me for that.”

I nodded.

“Me too. I had the craziest idea in that room when she was telling us she didn’t do it.”

“What was that?”

“I had this idea of putting her on the stand and letting her win the judge over.”

“I thought you always preached the opposite. Clients should stay out of the witness chair. Wasn’t it you who said people talk themselves into prison?”

“I did say that, and I do normally preach it. I like to say that the only way my client is going to testify is if I miss the tackle, but something about her makes me think she could win. Judges are different from juries. They see so many liars. They hope someday to hear the truth. I think Silver should have talked her out of the deal and taken it to court. She could win a jury too. That failure alone was five-oh-four material, if you ask me.”

“‘Five-oh-four’?”

“Ineffective assistance of counsel. I told Silver I wouldn’t take it that way, but now I’m not so sure. It would buy us some time, at least.”

“How so?”

“I file a habeas motion based on ineffective assistance, and that becomes our placeholder with the court. Gives us time to come up with something better before we go in front of the judge.”

“If there is something better.”

“Well, that’s actually what I meant when I asked what you were thinking. I wasn’t really asking about Lucinda. I meant the files. Anything helpful to our cause?”

“Well, there’s not a lot here, but the chrono is revealing.”

“How so?”

“I think you could make an argument for tunnel vision. Once the GSR came back positive on Lucinda, they ignored everyone else.”

“They focused solely on her?”

“Pretty much. The chrono says they initially called out the sergeant who oversaw the gang-suppression unit Roberto Sanz was assigned to. A guy named Stockton. They wanted to talk about the possibility that Roberto was killed in revenge for his taking out that gangbanger in the shooting the year before. But it looks like that line of inquiry stopped as soon as the GSR came back and pointed at Lucinda.”

“Good. That might be something I could use down the road. Anything else?”

“Just that. They dropped all other possible avenues of investigation once they had the GSR test.”

I nodded approvingly. Tunnel vision was a defense lawyer’s best friend. You show that the cops were not looking at other possibilities and it can make a jury suspicious. When you’ve got them suspicious, you’ve got them losing respect for the integrity of the investigators and you’ve sown the seeds of doubt. Reasonable doubt. Of course, a habeas petition would be decided not by a jury but by a judge who would be wise to the tricks of the trade and much harder to convince. But Bosch’s observation was still a good thing to have in my back pocket.

“I could look into that angle,” Bosch said. “The revenge aspect.”

“No,” I said. “That’s not our job. Our job is to prove our client innocent. Pointing out that the original investigators were lazy or had tunnel vision helps our cause. But we’re not going to chase alternative theories. We don’t have time for that.”

“Got it.”

“This is different, Harry. You’re not a homicide investigator. We’re not solving the crime. We’re proving Lucinda didn’t do it. There’s a difference.”

“I said I got it.”

Bosch went back to the file and started reading again. A few minutes later, he stopped. “Her story hasn’t changed,” he said. “I’m reading the transcript from the police interview. Her story back then was exactly what it was today. That’s gotta count for something.”

“Yes, but not enough. It’s an indicator of truthfulness, like the eye contact, but we need more. A lot more. By the way, why did you ask her back there about when Roberto got the tattoo?”

“I think it’s important to know. You get a tattoo and it’s sort of a life statement.”

“Says the man with a rat tat on his arm.”

“That’s another story. But to get a tattoo that most people won’t see, that says something. I just thought it would be good to know, but it came after they split.”

“Got it.”

Bosch continued reading the file. We were halfway back to Los Angeles. I started thinking about next steps with the case and whether to take it federal or state. There were arguments for and against both. Federal judges weren’t beholden to the electorate and would not hesitate to set a convicted murderer free if the evidence of innocence was there. But with lighter caseloads, federal jurists were generally more scrupulous in their consideration of motions and evidence.

My phone rang over the car’s Bluetooth connection. It was Lucinda Sanz calling collect from the prison. I accepted the call and told her that Bosch and I were still driving back to the city and we were both listening.

“I called my mother and she put Eric on so I could talk to him,” she said. “He said he would talk to you.”

“When?” I asked.

“Whenever you want,” she said. “He’s at the house now.”

I looked over at Bosch and he nodded. It had been his idea to talk to the boy.

“And your mother would be all right with it?” I asked.

“She said yes,” Lucinda said.

“All right, give me her number and I’ll call and tell her we’re heading there now.”

“Today? Are you sure?”

“Might as well, Cindi. We’ve got the time today. I don’t know about tomorrow.”

She gave the number and I saw Bosch write it down. I hit the mute button on the dashboard screen. “You got anything you want to ask while we have her?” I asked.

He hesitated but then nodded. I took the mute off.

“Cindi?” I asked.

“Yes,” she said.

“Harry has something he wants to ask,” I said. “Go ahead, Harry.”

Bosch leaned toward the center of the dashboard as if he thought he could be heard more clearly that way.

“Cindi,” he said. “Do you remember being told by the detectives that your arms and hands tested positive for gunshot residue?”

“They said that but it was a lie,” Lucinda said. “I didn’t shoot the gun.”

“I know, and that’s what you told them. My question is about the test. In the interview with the detectives, they said a man tested you but you told them it was a woman. Do you remember that?”

“The deputy just came up to me and said she had to test me for a gun. And she wiped my hands and my arms and the front of my jacket.”

“So it was definitely a female?”

“Yes.”

“Did you know her or get her name?”

Before she could answer, an electronic voice interrupted the call and announced the connection would be terminated in one minute. Bosch prompted Lucinda once the interruption was over.

“Cindi, who was the deputy who tested you?”

“I don’t know. I don’t think she told me her name. She said she worked with Robbie. I remember that.”

“Was she a detective?”

“I don’t know.”

“Well, was she in a sheriff’s uniform or plain clothes?”

“No, she was in regular clothes. She had her badge on a chain.”

“Around her neck?”

“Yes.”

“Would you know her if you saw her again?”

“Uh, I’m not so sure... I think yes, I—”

The call ended.

“Shit, she’s gone,” Bosch said.

“What was that about?” I asked.

“I’m reading the interview transcript right here. The detectives confront her with the GSR and explain that a deputy, who they don’t name but refer to as he, swiped her for GSR. Then she says it was a she.”

“Okay. So what’s the issue?”

“Well, the whole thing reads as off to me. I don’t know what the sheriff’s department crime scene protocols are but they can’t be that different from the LAPD’s. And I can tell you, at the LAPD, gunshot-residue testing is done by the detectives. Or at the very least, a criminalist. Definitely not somebody who works with the victim.”

I now remembered reading the exchange in the transcript. It hadn’t raised a flag for me in the way it did for Bosch. But that was Bosch. I had seen it before. He had this facility for seeing the details and evidence of a case and how it all matched up, or didn’t. He was playing chess while most people were playing checkers.

“Interesting,” I finally said. “So it was a female detective?”

“Not necessarily,” Bosch said. “It could have been somebody called in from home, no time to put on a uniform. But it sounds like somebody from Roberto’s unit. Detectives usually carry the badge on the belt. A badge on a chain indicates a plainclothes unit, like gangs or drugs. They use the chain so they can hide it and pull it out when shit goes down, like a raid or at a crime scene.”

“Got it.”

Bosch began looking through the pockets in the file on his lap. I glanced over and saw him pull out a document.

“This is the first crime report. It has the names of the two deputies who first responded: Gutierrez and Spain.”

“Well, we need to talk to them.”

“Maybe not right away. Remember, you said no footprints till we’re ready?”

I nodded. “Right.”

Bosch pulled out another document.

“What’s that?” I asked.

“The evidence log,” Bosch said. “Tracks chain of custody.”

He scanned it for a few moments before continuing.

“It says the GSR-swab disks were collected by a deputy named Keith Mitchell.”

“We need to follow up on that.”

“It might mean nothing. But I will.”

“So how do you want to play talking to the boy?”

“I don’t know yet. Let me finish the file first, then we can talk about it. Why don’t you call Cindi’s mother and tell her we’re on the way?”

“Sounds like a plan.”

12

The house where Lucinda Sanz grew up was on Mott Street in Boyle Heights. It was a neighborhood ravaged by gang graffiti and neglect. Many of the homes had white picket fences around the front lawns, a sign of allegiance and protection from the generationally entrenched street gang that ruled the neighborhood. Sanz’s mother was named Muriel Lopez. Her home had the fence and a couple of gangbangers to go with it. Two men in chinos and wifebeaters that showed off their tattoo sleeves were hanging on the front porch as we pulled up to the curb.

“Oh, boy,” I said. “Looks like we have a welcome committee.”

Bosch glanced up from the report he was reading and looked at the two men, who were staring back at us.

“We have the right address?” he asked.

“Yep,” I said. “This is the place.”

“Just so you know, I’m not armed.”

“I don’t think it’s going to be a problem.”

We got out and I pushed through the gate in the picket fence ahead of Bosch.

“Fellas, we’re here to see Ms. Lopez,” I said. “She around?”

Both men were in their early thirties. One was tall, the other squat.

“You the lawyer?” the tall one asked.

“That’s right,” I said.

“And what about him?” he said. “Looks like po-po to me. Old-ass po-po.”

“He’s my investigator,” I said. “That’s why he’s with me.”

Before things could get any tenser, the front door opened and a woman with silver-gray hair looked out and spoke in Spanish too fast for me to follow. It was as though I were looking at Lucinda in twenty years. Muriel had the same complexion and dark eyes, the same set of the jaw. Her hair was pulled back in a ponytail, revealing the same widow’s peak as her daughter had.

The two men didn’t respond to her but I could see them back down a few notches on the testosterone scale.

“Mr. Haller,” the woman said. “I am Muriel. Please come in.”

We stepped up onto the porch and moved toward the door. The two men parted and stood on either side of the house’s entrance. It was the tall one who spoke again.

“You going to get Lucinda out?” he asked.

“We’re sure going to try,” I said.

“How much she have to pay you?”

“Nothing.”

I held his eyes for a moment and then entered the house. Bosch passed by them next.

“You still look like police,” the tall one said.

Bosch didn’t reply. He just walked into the house, and Muriel closed the door.

“I will get Eric,” she said.

“Un momento, Muriel,” I said. “Who are those guys and how did they know we were coming?”

“The one who spoke to you is my son Carlos — Lucinda’s little brother. Cesar is her cousin.”

“You told them we were coming to talk to Eric?”

“They were here when you called to say you were coming.”

“They live here?”

“No, they live down the street. But they come by.”

I nodded and now had a firsthand understanding of Lucinda’s urgency: she had to win her freedom so she could rescue her son from a future in a gang.

Muriel led us to the living room and said she would go get Eric from his room. We heard muffled words while we waited and then finally Muriel returned holding Eric Sanz’s hand. He wore green shorts and a white polo shirt and red-and-black gym shoes. I immediately saw the unmistakable continuance of genetic heritage. The dark eyes, light brown skin, and hairline were all there. In a matter of a few hours I had seen three generations of this family. But the boy seemed smaller and more delicate than I’d imagined he would be at thirteen. His shirt was at least two sizes too big and hung off his bony shoulders.

I started to regret asking Lucinda to allow us to talk to this small boy about the death of his father and the conviction of his mother, because he looked so fragile. Bosch and I had worked things out on our final approach to Boyle Heights and decided that he would handle the questioning after an introduction from me. I hoped that Harry would get the same vibe I’d gotten and go gently with the interview.

The living room was overcrowded with furniture and family pictures on the walls and tables. There were many of Lucinda and of Eric as a younger child. It seemed to me that the photos would not be on display if Eric had grown up believing in his mother’s guilt.

Bosch and I sat on a chocolate-brown couch with worn and out-of-shape cushions, while Eric and his grandmother sat across from us on a matching chair wide enough for them both. Muriel had not offered us coffee, water, or anything besides an audience with our client’s son.

“Eric, my name is Mickey Haller,” I began. “I am your mother’s lawyer. And this is Harry Bosch, an investigator. We are trying to get your mother home to you. We want to take her case into court and prove to the judge that she did not do the thing they say she did. You understand, Eric?”

“Yes,” he said. The boy’s voice was small and tentative.

“We know this is difficult for you,” I said. “So if at any point you feel like you want a break or want to stop, just say so and we’ll stop. Is that okay with you?”

“Okay.”

“Good, Eric. Because we really want to try to help your mother if we can. I’m sure you wish she could be home with you.”

“Yes.”

“Good. So now I’ll let Harry take over. Thank you for talking to us, Eric. Harry?”

I looked over and saw that Bosch had a pen and notepad out and ready.

“Harry, no notes,” I said. “Let’s just talk.”

Bosch nodded, probably thinking my instruction came from a desire to be less formal with the boy. I would explain to him later that written notes could end up in the opposition’s hands through discovery requests. It was one of the rules I operated by — no notes, no discovery. Bosch would need to adjust his methods if he stuck with defense work.

“Okay, Eric,” Bosch said, “I want to start with a few basic questions. You are thirteen years old?”

“Yes.”

“And which school do you go to?”

“Home school.”

I looked over to Muriel for confirmation.

“Yes, I teach Eric,” she said. “The children at the school were cruel.”

I took that to mean that Eric had been bullied or taunted about his size or maybe, if the other children knew, about having his mother in prison for killing his father. Bosch rolled with it and kept going.

“Do you like any sports, Eric?” he asked.

“I like football,” Eric said.

“Which football? Soccer or, like, the Rams?”

“I like the Chargers.”

Bosch nodded and smiled.

“Me too. But that was a bad exit last year. Have you been to a game yet?”

“No, not yet.”

Bosch nodded.

“So, like Mr. Haller said, we want to try to help your mother,” he said. “And I know it was an awful day when you lost your father and your mother was taken away, but I was wondering if we could talk about that. Do you remember that day, Eric?”

The boy looked down at his hands clasped between his knees.

“Yes,” he said.

“Good,” Bosch said. “Do you remember, did the sheriff’s deputies ever talk to you about what you may have seen or heard that day?”

“There was a lady. She talked to me.”

“Did she have on a uniform? With a badge?”

“No uniform. She had a badge on a chain. She put me in the car in the back seat where they put the bad people.”

“You mean when people are arrested?”

“Yes, but we didn’t do anything wrong.”

“Of course not. I bet she said she was putting you there so you’d be safe.”

Eric shrugged. “I don’t know.”

“Did she interview you in the car?”

“She asked me questions about my mom and dad.”

“Do you remember what you told her?”

“Just that they were yelling at each other and my mom said I had to go to my room.”

“Did you see or hear anything else?”

“Not really. They said my mom shot my dad, but I didn’t see that.”

Muriel put her arm around the boy and squeezed him against her body.

“No, mijo, no,” she said. “Your mother is inocente.”

The boy nodded and looked like he was about to cry. I wondered if I should step in and end the interview. It did not appear that Eric would be giving us any information that deviated from what was already known. I was left curious about who had interviewed him, because there was no transcript of an interview in the admittedly incomplete records we had amassed from Silver and the court file from archives. My guess was that Eric had not been viewed as a key witness because of his age — eight at the time — and the fact that he had been in his room and did not witness the shooting.

Bosch continued, moving off the actual killing and in a new direction.

“You spent that weekend with your father, didn’t you?” he asked.

“Yes,” Eric said.

“Do you remember what you did with him?”

“We stayed at his apartment and Matty made us dinner one night and then—”

“Let me back you up for a second, Eric. Who is Matty?”

“That was my dad’s girlfriend.”

“Okay, got it. So she made dinner. Was that on the Saturday?”

“Yes.”

“And what about Sunday?”

“We went to Chuck E. Cheese.”

“Was that near where your dad lived?”

“I think so. I don’t know.”

“And it was just you and your dad or did Matty go too?”

“Matty came. She watched me when my dad had to leave.”

“How come he had to leave?”

“He got called on the phone and then he said he had a work meeting he had to go to. And I got to stay and play until he came back.”

“Is that why you got back late to your mother’s house?”

“I don’t remember.”

“That’s okay, Eric. You’re doing great. Do you remember anything else about that day besides going to Chuck E. Cheese with your dad and Matty?”

“Not really. Sorry.”

“No, don’t be sorry. You’ve given us a lot of information. One last question. Did Matty go with you and your dad when you were dropped off at home?”

“No, my dad took her back to the apartment first because he thought my mom would be mad if she came.”

“I see. So she just got out at the apartment.”

“They went inside while I stayed in the car. Then he came out and we went. It was dark.”

“When you two were heading back to your home, did your dad say anything else about why he had to go to work?”

“No. I don’t remember.”

“Did you tell the lady who talked to you in the car about his meeting that day?”

“I can’t remember.”

“Okay, Eric. Thanks. Is there anything you want to ask me or Mr. Haller?”

The boy shrugged his shoulders and looked from Bosch to me and then back.

“Will you get my mom out of prison?” he asked.

“We can’t promise anything. But like Mr. Haller said, we’re sure going to try.”

“Do you think she did it?”

There it was. The question the boy lived with every day of his life.

“Tell you what, Eric,” Bosch said, “I will never lie to you. So I’ll say this: I don’t know yet. But there are enough things about the case that don’t work for me, that don’t add up, you know what I mean? So I think there is a chance they made a mistake about her and she didn’t do it. I’m going to investigate it more and then I’ll come back here and tell you what I know. And I won’t lie. Is that okay with you?”

“Okay,” Eric said.

The interview was over. We all stood up, and Muriel told Eric he could go back to his room to play on his computer. After he was gone, I looked at Muriel.

“Do you know who Matty is?” I asked.

“Matilda Landas,” she said. “Roberto’s whore.”

She almost spit the words out. She had a deeper accent than her daughter and the words came out sharp and bitter. I recalled what Lucinda had said about deputy dollies being a cause for the destruction of her marriage.

“Was Roberto involved with her before the marriage broke up?” I asked.

“He denied it,” Muriel said. “But he was a liar.”

“Have you heard from her or seen her since then?” Bosch asked.

“I don’t know where she is,” Muriel said. “I don’t want to know. Puta!”

“Well, I think we’ll leave it at that, then,” I said. “Thank you for your time, Muriel, and for allowing us to talk to Eric. He seems like a bright kid. You must be a good teacher.”

“It’s my job to make him a good man,” she said. “But it is hard. The gangs want him.”

“I understand,” I said.

I considered suggesting that she limit his exposure to Uncle Carlos and Cousin Cesar but decided against it.

“You must get her out so she can take him away from here,” Muriel said.

“We’re going to try.”

“Thank you.”

Muriel’s eyes revealed her hope that her daughter would come home soon. Bosch and I thanked her again and headed to the door.

After Muriel closed the front door behind us, I saw one of the men from the welcoming committee sitting in a blanket-covered chair on the porch. He stood up. He was the talker from before, Lucinda’s little brother, Carlos.

“Lincoln Lawyer,” he said. “I seen you on the billboard. You look like a clown up there in your pinche pendejo car.”

“Probably not my best shot,” I said. “But I guess it’s a matter of opinion.”

He walked up close to me, holding his hands together to better flex his heavily inked biceps. In my peripheral vision I could tell Bosch had tensed. I smiled, hoping to defuse the situation.

“I take it you’re Eric’s uncle Carlos?” I said.

“Don’t fuck this up, Lincoln Lawyer,” he said.

“I don’t intend to.”

“Promise it.”

“I don’t make promises. Too many vari—”

“There will be consequences if you fuck up.”

“Then how ’bout I quit right now and you explain that to your sister.”

“You can’t quit now, Lincoln Lawyer. You are in.”

He stepped aside to let me go down the steps.

“Remember: consequences,” he said to my back. “Make it right, or I’m gonna make it right.”

I waved without looking back.

13

Bosch took the reins of the Navigator and we pulled out of Mott Street. He said something about being prepared to take evasive action should any other White Fence gangsters want an audience with the Lincoln Lawyer. I told him to take Cesar Chavez Avenue over to Eastern, where we made an unscheduled stop at Home of Peace Memorial Park. I directed him to the main chapel and told him to pull off to the side of the access road.

“I won’t be long.”

I got out and walked into the chapel and down one of the hallways lined with the names of the dead. I had not been here in almost a year and it took me a few minutes to locate the etched brass plaque I had paid for. But there it was, between someone named Neufeld and someone named Katz.

It was as he had wanted it, as he had written it out in his last requests. I just stood there for a quiet moment, the light coming through the colored glass on the wall behind me.

I missed him a lot. In and out of the courtroom, I had learned more from Legal Siegel than from any parent, professor, judge, or attorney I’d ever known. He was the one who’d taken me under his wing and showed me how to be a lawyer and a man. I wished he’d been with me to see Jorge Ochoa walk out of prison a free man, no legal strings attached. There were not-guilty verdicts to cherish, cross-examinations to savor, and the adrenaline-charged moments when you just know the jury’s eating out of the palm of your hand. I’d had all of those over the years. In spades. But nothing could ever beat the resurrection walk — when the manacles come off and the last metal doors slide open like the gates of heaven, and a man or woman declared innocent walks into the waiting arms of family, resurrected in life and the law. There is no better feeling in the world than being with that family and knowing you were the one who made it so.

Frank Silver was wrong about what he thought I was doing. Sure, there was long-shot money at the end of the rainbow. But that wasn’t what I was looking for. With Jorge Ochoa, I had felt the adrenaline charge of the resurrection walk and I was now addicted to it. It might happen only once or twice in a lawyer’s career, but I didn’t care. I wanted that moment again and I’d do anything to get it. I wanted to stand outside the prison gates and welcome my client back to the land of the living. I didn’t know if Lucinda Sanz would be that client. But the Lincoln Lawyer had a full tank and was ready to drive down Resurrection Road again.

I heard the chapel door open and soon Bosch was standing next to me. He followed my sightline to the plaque on the wall.

“Legal Siegel,” he said. “What’s he doing out here in Boyle Heights?”

“He was born here,” I said.

“I had him as a Westside guy.”

“Back in the thirties and forties, there were more Jews than Latinos in Boyle Heights. Did you know that? Instead of East Los it was called the Lower East Side. And Cesar Chavez Avenue? That was Brooklyn Avenue.”

“You know your history.”

“Legal Siegel knew it. He passed it on to me. A hundred fifty years ago, this cemetery was in Chavez Ravine. Then they dug everybody up and moved them over here.”

“And now Chavez Ravine isn’t even Chavez Ravine. It’s a baseball field.”

“Nothing in this city stays the same for very long.”

“You got that right.”

We stood in respectful silence for a few moments. Then Bosch spoke.

“How was he at the end?” he asked. “You know, with the dementia.”

“Full on,” I said. “He’d moved from knowing he had it and being scared shitless to being completely gone.”

“Did he know you?”

“He thought I was my father. Same name but I could tell he thought I was him, his law partner for thirty years. He’d tell stories that at first I’d think were true but then I’d remember they were scenes from a movie. Like payoffs stuffed in shirt boxes from the laundry.”

“Not true?”

“Goodfellas — you ever see it?”

“Missed it.”

“Good movie.”

We went silent again. I wished Bosch would go back to the car so I could have a private moment. I thought about the last time I had seen Legal Siegel. I had snuck a corned-beef sandwich from Canter’s into his room at the hospice. But he didn’t remember the place or the sandwich and didn’t have the strength to eat it anyway. Two weeks later he was gone.

“You know, Canter’s was over here too,” I said. “The deli. Like a hundred years ago. Then they eventually moved out to Fairfax. Shelley versus Kraemer changed a lot of things.”

“‘Shelley versus Kraemer’?” Bosch asked.

“A case decided by the Supreme Court seventy-five years ago. It knocked down racial and ethnic covenants and restrictions on the sale of property. Jews, Blacks, Chinese — after that ruling, they could buy anywhere, live anywhere they liked. Of course, it still took a lot of courage. That same year Nat King Cole bought a house in Hancock Park and the bigots burned a cross on his lawn.”

Bosch just nodded. I stayed up on the soapbox.

“Anyway, back then the Court was moving us forward. Toward the Great Society and all that. Now it seems to want to move us back.”

After another moment of silence, Bosch pointed to the plaque.

“That saying about good things coming to an end,” he said. “That was on the locked door at Chinese Friends the last time I tried to eat there.”

I stepped up and put my hand on the wall, covering Legal’s name, and held it there for a moment. I bowed my head.

“They got that right,” I said.

We didn’t talk about the threat from Carlos Lopez until we were back in the Navigator.

“So what do you think he meant about making it right if you don’t make it right?” Bosch asked.

“No earthly idea,” I said. “Guy’s a gangster caught up in the macho-gangster ethos. Even he probably doesn’t know what he meant by that.”

“You don’t take it as a threat?”

“Not a serious one. It’s not the first time somebody thought they could make me work the law better by trying to scare me. Won’t be the last. Let’s get out of here, Harry. Take me back to my place.”

“You got it.”