Lost Light

back on and Danny entered the room. I checked the time on the screen and saw this was only three minutes after the agents had left the room. Her husband’s face was streaked with tears. Tears he could do nothing to hide.
    She crossed the room to him. Without a word she climbed onto the chair in front of him, her knees alongside his thin thighs. She lowered her hips onto his lap. She opened her bathrobe and pulled his face forward to her breasts. She held him there and he cried again. No words were spoken at first. She quietly and tenderly shushed him. And then she started to sing to him.
    The song I knew and she sang it well. Her voice was as soft as a breeze, whereas the song’s original voice carried the rasp of all the world’s anguish in it. I didn’t think anybody could ever touch Louis Armstrong but Danny Cross certainly did.

    I see skies of blue
    And clouds of white
    The bright blessed day
    The dark sacred night
    And I think to myself
    What a wonderful world

    And that was the hardest part of the surveillance to watch. That was the part that made me feel the most like an intruder, as if I had crossed some line of decency within myself.
    “Turn it off now,” I finally said.

24
    The defining moment for me as a police officer did not occur on the street or while I worked a case. It occurred on March 5, 1991. It was during the afternoon and I was in the squad room in Hollywood Division ostensibly doing paperwork. But like everybody else in the squad I was waiting. When everybody started leaving their desks to gather at the televisions I got up, too. There was one in the lieutenant’s office and one was mounted overhead on the wall by the burglary table. I didn’t get along with the lieutenant at the time so I moved to the burglary pen to watch. We had already heard about it but few of us had actually seen the tape yet. And there it was. Grainy black-and-white but still clear enough to see and to know that things would change. Four uniform cops gathered around a man flopping on the ground. Rodney King, ex-con and now speeding scofflaw. Two of the cops were wailing on him with batons. A third kicked him while the fourth controlled the juice for the Taser gun. A second larger ring of uniforms stood around and watched. A lot of jaws dropped in the squad room as we looked up at the screen. A lot of hearts fell. We felt betrayed in some way. To a man and woman we all knew that the department would not withstand the tape. It would change. Police work in Los Angeles would change.
    Of course we didn’t know how or whether it would be for better or for worse. We didn’t know then that political motives and racial emotions would rise up over the department like a tidal wave, that there would later be a deadly riot and complete tearing of the city’s social fabric. But as we watched that grainy video we all knew something was coming. All because of that one moment of anger and frustration acted out under a streetlight in the San Fernando Valley.
    As I sat in the waiting room of a downtown law office I thought about that moment. I remembered the anger I felt and I realized it had come back to me across time. The recording I had of Lawton Cross being abused was no Rodney King tape. It would not set back law enforcement and community relations decades. It would not change the way people viewed police and decided whether to back them or cooperate with them. But it had a clear kinship in its sickeningly pure depiction of the abuse of power. It didn’t have the juice to change a city but it could change a bureaucracy like the Federal Bureau of Investigation. If I wanted it to.
    But I didn’t. What I wanted was something else and I was going to use the recording to get it. In the short run at least. I wasn’t thinking yet about what might happen with it or with me further down the road.
    The law library I sat in an hour after leaving Biggar amp; Biggar was lined with cherry wood paneling and bookshelves full of leather-bound volumes of law books. In the few open spaces on the walls there were lighted oil paintings depicting the law firm’s partners. I stood in front of one of the paintings studying the fine brushwork. It showed a handsome man standing tall with brown hair and piercing green eyes set off by a deep tan. The gold plate on the top of the mahogany frame said his name was James Foreman. He looked like everything a successful man should be.
    “Mr. Bosch?”
    I turned. The matronly woman who had escorted