I’ve enclosed a picture of myself and my gopher, Pockets. The internet is pretty vague about the photograph restrictions for death-row mail at San Quentin, so I hope they get through.
Kind regards, and hope to hear from you soon,
Dayly
JESSICA
The street was crammed with squad cars, officers finding excuses to stay in the air-conditioned West LA police department building as the heat of the day grew. Jessica had spent the evening in her cramped apartment on Alameda, thinking about the house and the Harbour boy. She’d showered awkwardly, protecting her bandages, and dreamed of being chased by zombies. At midnight she’d got up, taken the keys to the Bluestone Lane house from the coffee table, and thrown them into the trash. In the morning, she’d retrieved them.
At the station, two bored-looking officers she didn’t recognize were manning the desk under the huge framed photographs of chiefs past. Jessica didn’t alert them to her presence, instead buzzing quickly through the door to the back offices with her swipe card. To be ignored on this mission would be a joy.
She was not so lucky inside the open-plan office of the first-floor bullpen. The familiar smell hit her, of body odor, coffee, and cigarettes. She felt the gaze of every person in the room drift toward her. Some of them held phones to their ears, or were leaning over cluttered desks, examining photographs, reviewing CCTV, staring at notes. But Jessica’s presence was like a low siren rising, hitting each officer separately. She cleared her throat and headed for the elevators.
She was only seconds at the elevator doors, punching the button repeatedly, before she heard the words whispered somewhere behind her. Brentwood. Mansion. Millions.
Nothing about her injuries. Nothing about Wallert and Vizchen. On the third floor, she didn’t stop to assess her impact on the room. She found Wallert in the coffee area, dumping sugar packets into his paper cup. She waited until he turned away from the counter, then slammed her palm upward into the bottom of the cup, spraying coffee all over his face, the coffee machine, the counter, the wall. Before her partner could clear his eyes she drew back and punched him hard in the mouth.
“You piece of shit,” she snarled.
“Oh my god! What the fuck!”
“You fat, fucking traitorous piece of shit!”
She hadn’t composed her words, hadn’t considered anything more articulate or cutting, something that people would remember in years to come. The insults just exploded out of her like barks. Officers were on her before she could land a second blow. Romley from Narco squad and some woman she didn’t recognize were hooking her arms and dragging her back. A crowd had formed, ostensibly to break up the violence but really to have front-row tickets for the showdown of the month in Homicide.
“I could have been killed, you motherfucker!” she howled at Wallert. “That guy picked me up and put me on the ground like I was a child. If you’d been there I wouldn’t have had to kill him. I shot someone because of you—”
“You’ll get over it.” Wallert’s shirt was stuck to his front with coffee, showing the outline of the black hairs on his pudgy chest. He wiped blood from his chin. “You’ve got all the money in the world to spend on therapy now.”
“Are you hearing this?” Jessica wrestled herself free from arms that held her, looked around at her colleagues. “Are you all hearing this? This guy bailed on his partner.” She pointed at Wallert. “That’s not what we do here. That’s not us.”
She examined the faces in the circle, expecting to see her fury reflected back at her. But many eyes were downcast, or locked awkwardly with one another, having silent conversations, judging, weighing. She was surrounded by her people, and yet the word us rang in the air thinly, like a squeak. Suddenly, Wallert seemed to be a part of them, of The Great Us, and Jessica was standing there wondering what had happened in the twenty-four hours she’d been away from the office, what discussions had been held, what decisions made, to draw a line in the sand between them.
“This is unbelievable.” She was suddenly out of breath. “This is—”
“Sanchez, why don’t you pipe down.” Some guy from Personnel division put a hand on her shoulder. Jessica felt the bite wound come alive. “Making a scene isn’t going to help your case.”
“My case?” She shoved him away.
“What Wallert did wasn’t right,” Romley from Narco said, shrugging. “But me and some of the guys have talked about it. Everybody’s been talking about it. From the initial reports, it sounds like you went off on your own. Sure, Wally and Vizchen should have backed you, but you made that decision, Sanchez. And this house in Brentwood thing—this is some incredible bullshit, if I’m honest.”
“Sure would have pissed me off,” someone said.
“You’re not gonna take the house, are you?” It was Veronica from West Homicide. “Someone said you were. But you can’t.”
“I heard it’s worth nine mil.”
“Talk about bailing on your partner.”
Romley handed Wallert a bunch of napkins and Wallert smiled beneath them as he dabbed his bleeding gums. Jessica turned and glimpsed Vizchen at the back of the gathering, expressionless, watching. The bodies around her suddenly seemed to be radiating heat, making her wounds burn. Jessica thought of fever, infection, HIV. She gripped her head, tried to tell herself that
