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to phone, food and visitors. Fuck it, I hope he does go for it, man. But it won’t matter. This is bullshit. This whole thing is bullshit. It’s all about the money.”
    The last line floated out there for a long moment before Bosch finally bit.
    “What money?”
    “My money. You watch, man, they’ll come at me with a deal. My lawyer told me. They’ll want me to take a deal and plead to time served so they don’t have to pay me the money. That’s all this fucking is and you two are just the deliverymen. Fuckin’ FedEx.”
    Bosch was silent. He wondered if it could be true. Jessup was suing the city and county for millions. Could it be that the retrial was simply a political move designed to save money? Both government entities were self-insured. Juries loved hitting faceless corporations and bureaucracies with obscenely large judgments. A jury believing prosecutors and police had corruptly imprisoned an innocent man for twenty-four years would be beyond generous. A hit from an eight-figure judgment could be devastating to both city and county coffers, even if they were splitting the bill.
    But if they jammed Jessup and maneuvered him into a deal in which he acknowledged guilt to gain his freedom, then the lawsuit would go away. So would all the book and movie money he was counting on.
    “Makes a lot of sense, doesn’t it?” Jessup said.
    Bosch checked the mirror and realized that now Jessup was studying him. He turned his eyes back to the road. He felt his phone vibrate and pulled it out of his jacket.
    “You want me to take it, Harry?” Chu asked.
    A reminder that it was illegal to talk on a phone while driving an automobile. Bosch ignored him and took the call. It was Lieutenant Gandle.
    “Harry, you close?”
    “Getting off the one-oh-one.”
    “Good. I just wanted to give you a heads-up. They’re lining up at intake. Comb your hair.”
    “Got it, but maybe I’ll give my partner the airtime.”
    Bosch glanced over at Chu but didn’t explain.
    “Either way,” Gandle said. “What’s next?”
    “He invoked so we just book him. Then I have to go back to the war room and meet with the prosecutors. I’ve got questions.”
    “Harry, do they have this guy or not?”
    Bosch checked Jessup in the mirror. He was back to looking out the window.
    “I don’t know, Lieutenant. When I know, you’ll know.”
    A few minutes later they pulled into the rear lot of the jail. There were several television cameras and their operators lined up on a ramp leading to the intake door. Chu sat up straight.
    “Perp walk, Harry.”
    “Yeah. You take him in.”
    “Let’s both do it.”
    “Nah, I’ll hang back.”
    “You sure?”
    “I’m sure. Just don’t forget my cuffs.”
    “Okay, Harry.”
    The lot was clogged with media vans with their transmitters cranked to full height. But they had left the space in front of the ramp open. Bosch pulled in and parked.
    “Okay, you ready back there, Jessup?” Chu asked. “Time to sell tickets.”
    Jessup didn’t respond. Chu opened the door and got out, then opened the rear door for Jessup.
    Bosch watched the ensuing spectacle from the confines of the car.

Five
    Tuesday, February 16, 4:14 P.M .
    O ne of the very best things about having previously been married to Maggie McPherson was that I never had to face her in court. The marital split created a conflict of interest that saved me professional defeat and humiliation at her hands on more than one occasion. She was truly the best prosecutor I’d ever seen step into the well and they didn’t call her Maggie McFierce for no reason.
    Now, for the first time, we would be on the same team in court, sitting side by side at the same table. But what had seemed like such a good idea—not to mention such a positive potential payoff for Maggie—was already manifesting itself as something jagged and rusty. Maggie was having issues with being second chair. And for good reason. She was a professional prosecutor. From drug dealers