The Reversal (13 page)

She slowly nodded.

“I remember looking through the window. Upstairs. They opened the blinds a little bit so I could look out. They weren’t supposed to be able to see me. The men. He was the one with the hat. They made him take it off and that’s when I saw it was him. I remember that.”

Bosch was encouraged by the detail of the hat. He didn’t recall seeing that in the case records or hearing it in McPherson’s summary but the fact that Gleason remembered it was a good sign.

“What kind of hat was he wearing?” he asked.

“A baseball cap,” Gleason said. “It was blue.”

“A Dodgers cap?”

“I’m not sure. I don’t think I knew back then either.”

Bosch nodded and moved in.

“Do you think if I showed you a photo lineup, you would be able to identify the man who took your sister?”

“You mean the way he looks now? I doubt it.”

“No, not now,” McPherson said. “What we would need to do in trial is confirm the identification you made back then. We would show you photos from back then.”

Gleason hesitated and then nodded.

“Sure. Through everything I’ve done to myself over the years, I’ve never been able to forget that man’s face.”

“Well, let’s see.”

While Bosch opened the file on the table, Gleason lit a new cigarette off the end of her old one.

The file contained a lineup of six black-and-white booking photos of men of the same age, build and coloring. A 1986 photo of Jessup was included in the spread. Harry knew that this was the make-or-break moment of the case.

The photos were displayed in two rows of three. Jessup’s shot was in the middle window on the bottom row. The five hole. It had always been the lucky spot for Bosch.

“Take your time,” he said.

Gleason drank some water and then put the bottle to the side. She leaned over the table, bringing her face within twelve inches of the photos. It didn’t take her long. She pointed to the photo of Jessup without hesitation.

“I wish I could forget him,” she said. “But I can’t. He’s always there in the back of my mind. In the shadows.”

“Do you have any doubt about the photo you have chosen?” Bosch asked.

Gleason leaned down and looked again, then shook her head.

“No. He was the man.”

Bosch glanced at McPherson, who made a slight nod. It was a good ID and they had handled it right. The only thing that was missing was a show of emotion on Gleason’s part. But maybe twenty-four years had drained her of everything. Harry took out a pen and handed it to Gleason.

“Would you put your initials and the date below the photo you chose, please?”

“Why?”

“It confirms your ID. It just helps make it more solid when it comes up in court.”

Bosch noted that she had not asked if she had chosen the right photo. She didn’t have to and that was a secondary confirmation of her recall. Another good sign. After she handed the pen back to Bosch he closed the file and slid it to the side. He glanced at McPherson again. Now came the hard part. By prior agreement, Maggie was going to make the call here on whether to bring up the DNA now or to wait until Gleason was more firmly onboard as a witness.

McPherson decided not to wait.

“Sarah, there is a second issue to discuss now. We told you about the DNA that allowed this man to get this new trial and what we hope is only his temporary freedom.”

“Yes.”

“We took the DNA profile and checked it against the California data bank. We got a match. The semen on the dress your sister was wearing came from your stepfather.”

Bosch watched Sarah closely. Not even a flicker of surprise showed on her face or in her eyes. This information was not news to her.

“In two thousand four the state started taking DNA swabs from all suspects in felony arrests. That same year your father was arrested for a felony hit-and-run with injuries. He ran a stop sign and hit—”

“Stepfather.”

“Excuse me?”

“You said ‘your father.’ He wasn’t my father. He was my stepfather.”

“My mistake. I’m sorry. The bottom line is Kensington Landy’s DNA was in the data bank and it’s a match with the sample from the dress. What could not be determined is how long that sample was on the dress at the time of its discovery. It could have been deposited on the dress the day of the murder or the week before or maybe even a month before.”

Sarah started flying on autopilot. She was there but not there. Her eyes were fixed on a distance that was far beyond the room they were in.

“We have a theory, Sarah. The autopsy that was conducted on your sister determined that she had not been sexually abused by her killer or anyone else prior to that day. We also know the dress she wore happened to be yours and Melissa was borrowing it that morning because she liked it.”

McPherson paused but Sarah said nothing.

“When we get to trial we’re going to have to explain the semen found on the dress. If we can’t explain it, the assumption will be that it came from the killer and that killer was your stepfather. We will lose the case and Jessup, the real killer, will walk away free. I’m sure you don’t want that, do you, Sarah? There are some people out there who think twenty-four years in prison is enough time served for the murder of a twelve-year-old girl. They don’t know why we’re doing this. But I want you to know that I don’t think that, Sarah. Not by a long shot.”

Sarah Gleason didn’t answer at first. Bosch expected tears but none came and he began to wonder if her emotions had been cauterized by the traumas and depravities of her life. Or maybe she simply had an internal toughness that her diminutive stature camouflaged. Either way, when she finally responded, it was in a flat, emotionless voice that belied the heartfelt words she spoke.

“You know what I always thought?” she said.

McPherson leaned forward.

“What, Sarah?”

“That that man killed three people that day. My sister, then my mother… and then me. None of us got away.”

There was a long moment of silence. McPherson slowly reached out and put her hand on Gleason’s arm, a gesture of comfort where no comfort could exist.

“I’m sorry, Sarah,” McPherson whispered.

“Okay,” Gleason said. “I’ll tell you everything.”

Thirteen

Thursday, February 18, 8:15
P.M
.

M
y daughter was already missing her mother’s cooking—and she’d only been gone one day. I was dropping her half-eaten sandwich into the garbage and wondering how the hell I could’ve messed up a grilled cheese when my cell phone’s ring interrupted. It was Maggie checking in from the road.

“Tell me something good,” I said by way of greeting.

“You get to spend the evening with our beautiful daughter.”

“Yes, that’s something good. Except she doesn’t like my cooking. Now tell me something else that’s good.”

“Our primary witness is good to go. She’ll testify.”

“She made the ID?”

“She did.”

“She told you about the DNA and it fits with our theory?”

“She did and it does.”

“And she’ll come down here and testify to all of it at the trial?”

“She will.”

I felt a twelve-volt charge go through my body.

“That’s actually a lot of good things, Maggie. Is there any downside?”

“Well…”

I felt the wind go out of the sails. I was about to learn that Sarah was still a drug addict or there was some other issue that would prevent me from using her at trial.

“Well, what?”

“Well, there are going to be challenges to her testimony, of course, but she’s pretty solid. She’s a survivor and it shows. There’s really only one thing missing: emotions. She’s been through a lot in her life and she basically seems to be a bit burned out—emotionally. No tears, no laughter, just straight down the middle.”

“We can work on that. We can coach her.”

“Yeah, well, we just have to be careful with that. I am not saying she isn’t fine the way she is. I’m just saying that she’s sort of a flat line. Everything else is good. I think you’re going to like her and I think she’ll help us put Jessup back in prison.”

“That’s fantastic, Maggie. Really. And you’re still all right handling her at trial, right?”

“I’ve got her.”

“Royce will attack her on the meth—memory loss and all of that. Her lifestyle… you’ll have to be ready for anything and everything.”

“I will be. That leaves you with Bosch and Jessup. You still think he’ll testify?”

“Jessup? Yes, he’s got to. Clive knows he can’t do that to a jury, not after twenty-four years. So, yes, I’ve got him and I’ve got Bosch.”

“At least with Harry you don’t have to worry about any baggage.”

“That Clive knows about yet.”

“And what’s that supposed to mean?”

“It means don’t underestimate Clever Clive Royce. See, that’s what you prosecutors always do. You get overconfident and it makes you vulnerable.”

“Thank you, F. Lee Bailey. I’ll keep that in mind.”

“How was Bosch today?”

“He was Bosch. What happened on your end?”

I checked through the door of the kitchen. Hayley was sitting on the couch with her homework spread out on the coffee table.

“Well, for one thing, we’ve got a judge. Breitman, Department one-twelve.”

Maggie considered the case assignment for a moment before responding.

“I would call that a no-win for either side. She’s straight down the middle. Never a prosecutor, never a defense attorney. Just a good, solid civil trial lawyer. I think neither side gets an advantage with her.”

“Wow, a judge who’s going to be impartial and fair. Imagine that.”

She didn’t respond.

“She set the first status conference in chambers. Wednesday morning at eight before court starts. You read anything into that?”

This meant the judge wanted to meet the lawyers and discuss the case in chambers, starting things off informally and away from the lens of the media.

“I think that’s good. She’s probably going to set the rules with media and procedure. It sounds to me like she’s going to run a tight ship.”

“That was what I was thinking. You’re free Wednesday to be there?”

“I’ll have to check my calendar but I think so. I’m trying to clear everything except for this.”

“I gave Royce the first bit of discovery today. It was mostly composed of material from the first trial.”

“You know you could have held off on that until the thirty-day marker.”

“Yeah, but what’s the point?”

“The point is strategy. The earlier you give it to him, the more time he has to be ready for it. He’s trying to put the squeeze on us by not waiving speedy trial. You should put the squeeze right back on him by not showing our hand until we have to. Thirty days before trial.”

“I’ll remember that with the next round. But this was pretty basic stuff.”

“Was Sarah Gleason on the witness list?”

“Yes, but under the name Sarah Landy—as it was in ’eighty-six. And I gave the office as the address. Clive doesn’t know we found her.”

“We need to keep it that way until we have to reveal it. I don’t want her harassed or feeling threatened.”

“What did you tell her about coming down for the trial?”

“I told her she would probably be needed for two days in trial. Plus the travel.”

“And that’s not going to be a problem?”

“Well… she runs her own business and has been at it only a couple years. She has one big, ongoing project but otherwise said that things are slow. My guess is we can get her down when we need her.”

“Are you still in Port Townsend?”

“Yes, we just got finished with her about an hour ago. We grabbed dinner and checked in at a hotel. It’s been a long day.”

“And you’re coming back tomorrow?”

“We were planning on it. But our flight’s not till two. We have to take a ferry—it’s a journey just to the airport.”

“Okay, call me in the morning before you leave. Just in case I think of something involving the witness.”

“Okay.”

“Did either of you take notes?”

“No, we thought it might freeze her.”

“Did you record it?”

“No, same reason.”

“Good. I want to keep as much of this out of discovery as possible. Tell Bosch not to write anything up. We can copy Royce on the six-pack she made the ID off of, but that’s it.”

“Right. I’ll tell Harry.”

“When, tonight or tomorrow?”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Nothing, never mind. Anything else?”

“Yes.”

I braced for it. My petty jealousy had slipped out for one small moment.

“I would like to say good night to my daughter now.”

“Oh,” I said, relief bursting through my body. “I’ll put her on.”

I took the phone out to Hayley.

“It’s your mother.”

PART TWO

—The Labyrinth

Fourteen

Tuesday, February 23, 8:45
P.M
.

E
ach of them worked in silence. Bosch at one end of the dining room table, his daughter at the other. He with the first batch of SIS surveillance logs, she with her homework, her school books and laptop computer spread out in front of her. They were close in proximity but not in much else. The Jessup case had become all-encompassing with Bosch tracing old witnesses and trying to find new ones. He had spent little time with her in recent days. Like her parents, Maddie was good at holding grudges and had not let go of the perceived slight of having been left for a night in the care of an assistant school principal. She was giving Harry the silent treatment and already at fourteen she was an expert at it.

The SIS logs were another frustration to Bosch. Not because of what they contained but because of their delay in reaching him. They had been sent through bureaucratic channels, from the SIS office to the RHD office and then to Bosch’s supervisor, where they had sat in an in basket for three days before finally being dropped on Bosch’s desk. The result was he had logs from the first three days of the surveillance of Jason Jessup and he was looking at them three to six days after the fact. That process was too slow and Bosch was going to have to do something about it.