through the metal detector and felt a reminder of all that had changed in his life. When he had been a bureau agent all he needed to do was hold his badge up and walk around the line. Now he was just a citizen. He had to wait.
The fourth-floor hallway was crowded with people milling about. McCaleb noticed that many clutched stacks of eight-by-ten black-and-white glossies of the movie stars they hoped would be attending the trial – either as witnesses or as spectators in support of the defendant. He walked to the double-door entrance to Department N but one of the two sheriff’s deputies posted there told him the courtroom was at full capacity. The deputy pointed to a long line of people standing behind a rope. He said it was the line for people waiting to go in. Every time one person left the courtroom another could go in. McCaleb nodded and stepped away from the doors.
He saw that further down the hallway was an open door with people milling about it. He recognized one man as a reporter on a local television news program. He guessed it was the media room and headed that way.
When he got to the open door he could look in and see two large televisions mounted high up in either corner above the room where there were several people crowded around a large jury table. Reporters. They were typing on laptop computers, taking notes on pads, eating sandwiches from to-go bags. The center of the table was crowded with plastic coffee and soda cups.
He looked up at one of the televisions and saw that court was still in session though it was now past noon. The camera focused on a wide angle and he recognized Harry Bosch sitting with a man and a woman at the prosecution table. It did not look as though he was paying attention to the proceedings. A man McCaleb recognized stood at the lectern between the prosecution and defense tables. He was J. Reason Fowkkes, the lead defense attorney. At the table to his left sat the defendant, David Storey.
McCaleb could not hear the audio feed but he knew that Fowkkes was not delivering his opening statement. He was looking up at the judge, not in the direction of the jury box. Most likely last-minute motions were being argued by the attorneys before openers began. The twin television screens switched to a new camera, this angle directly on the judge, who began speaking, apparently delivering his rulings. McCaleb noted the name plate in front of the judge’s bench. It said Superior Court Judge John A. Houghton.
“Agent McCaleb?”
McCaleb turned from the television to see a man he recognized but couldn’t immediately place standing next to him.
“Just McCaleb. Terry McCaleb.”
The man perceived his difficulty and held out his hand.
“Jack McEvoy. I interviewed you once. It was pretty brief. It was about the Poet investigation.”
“Oh, right, I remember now. That was a while back.”
McCaleb shook his hand. He did remember McEvoy. He had become entwined in the Poet case and then wrote a book about it. McCaleb had had a very peripheral part in the case – when the investigation had shifted to Los Angeles. He never read McEvoy’s book but was sure he had not added anything to it and likely wasn’t mentioned in it.
“I thought you were from Colorado,” he said, recalling that McEvoy had worked for one of the papers in Denver. “They sent you out to cover this?”
McEvoy nodded.
“Good memory. I was from there but I live out here now. I work freelance.”
McCaleb nodded, wondering what else there was to say.
“Who are you covering this for?”
“I’ve been writing a weekly dispatch on it for the New Times. Do you read it?”
McCaleb nodded. He was familiar with the New Times. It was a weekly tabloid with an anti-authority, muckraking stance. It appeared to subsist mostly on entertainment ads, ranging from movies to the escort services that filled its back pages. It was free and Buddy always seemed to leave issues lying around the boat. McCaleb looked at it from time to time but hadn’t noticed McEvoy’s name before.
“I’m also doing a general wrap for Vanity Fair,” McEvoy said. “You know, a more discursive, dark-side-of- Hollywood piece. I’m thinking about another book, too. What brings you here? Are you… involved with this in some…”
“Me, no. I was in the area and I have a friend involved. I was hoping I might be able to get a chance to say hello to him.”
As he told the lie McCaleb looked away from the writer and back through the door to the televisions. The full courtroom camera angle was now being shown. It looked like Bosch was gathering things into a briefcase.
“Harry Bosch?”
McCaleb looked back at him.
“Yeah, Harry. We worked a case together before and… uh, what’s going on in there now, anyway?”
“Final motions before they start. They started with a closed session and they’re just doing some housekeeping. Not worth being in there. Everybody thinks the judge will probably finish before lunch and then give the lawyers the rest of the day to work on openers. They start tomorrow at ten. You think things are crowded here now? Wait till tomorrow.”
McCaleb nodded.
“Oh, well, okay then. Uh, nice seeing you again, Jack. Good luck with the story. And the book, if it comes to that.”
“You know, I would have liked to write your story. You know, with the heart and everything.”
McCaleb nodded.
“Well, I owed Keisha Russell one and she did a good job with it.”
McCaleb noticed people start to push their way out of the media room. Behind them he could see on the television screens that the judge had left the bench. Court was out of session.
“I better go down the hall and see if I can catch Harry. Good to see you again, Jack.”
McCaleb offered his hand and McEvoy shook it. He then followed the other reporters down to the courtroom doors.
The main doors to Department N were opened by the two deputies and out flowed the crowd of lucky citizens who had gotten seats during the session, which had most likely been mind-numbingly boring. Those who had not made it inside pushed up close for a glimpse of a celebrity but they were disappointed. The celebrities wouldn’t start showing until the next day. Opening statements were like the opening credits of a film. That’s where they would want to be seen.
At the tail end of the crowd came the lawyers and staff. Storey had been returned to lockup but his attorney strode right to the semicircle of reporters and began giving his view of what had transpired inside. A tall man with jet black hair, a deep tan and ever-shifting green eyes took a position directly behind the lawyer to cover his back. He was striking and McCaleb thought he recognized him but he couldn’t think from where. He looked like one of the actors Storey normally put in his films.
The prosecutors came out and soon had their own knot of reporters to deal with. Their answers were shorter than the defense lawyer’s. They often declined to comment when asked questions about the evidence they would present.
McCaleb watched for Bosch and finally saw him slip out last. Bosch skirted the crowd by staying close to the wall and headed toward the elevators. One reporter moved in on him but he held up his hand and waved her away. She stopped and moved back like a loose molecule to the pack standing around J. Reason Fowkkes.
McCaleb followed Bosch down the hall and caught him when he stopped to wait for an elevator.
“Hey, Harry Bosch.”
Bosch turned, already putting on his no-comment face, when he saw it was McCaleb.
“Hey… McCaleb.”
He smiled. The men shook hands.
“Looks like the world’s worst eight-by-ten case,” McCaleb said.
“You’re telling me. What are you doing here? Don’t tell me you’re writing a book on this thing.”
“What?”
“All these ex-bureau guys writing books nowadays.”
“Nah, that’s not me. Actually, though, I was hoping I could maybe buy you lunch. There’s something I wanted to talk to you about.”
