The Brass Verdict

Walter Elliot and Nina Albrecht. No one made mention of the attempt on my life and the events at the Fryman Canyon overlook. For the moment, that was all secret. Once McSweeney told Bosch and Armstead that he wanted to deal, the investigators had asked me to keep quiet so they could move slowly and carefully with their cooperating suspect. I was happy to cooperate with that myself. To a point.
    Judge Stanton took the bench promptly at nine. His eyes were puffy and he looked like he’d had very little sleep. I wondered if he knew as many details of what had transpired the night before as I did.
    The jury was brought in and I studied their faces. If any of them knew what had happened, they weren’t showing it. I noticed several of them check out the empty seat beside me as they took their own.
    “Ladies and gentlemen, good morning,” the judge said. “At this time I am going to discharge you from service in this trial. As I am sure you can see, Mr. Elliot is not in his seat at the defense table. This is because the defendant in this trial was the victim of a homicide last night.”
    Half of the jurors’ mouths dropped open in unison. The others expressed their surprise with their eyes. A low murmur of excited voices went through the courtroom and then a slow and deliberate clapping began from behind the prosecution table. I turned to see Mitzi Elliot’s mother applauding the news of Elliot’s demise.
    The judge brought his gavel down harshly just as Golantz jumped from his seat and rushed to her, grabbing her hands gently and stopping her from continuing. I saw tears rolling down her cheeks.
    “There will be no demonstrations from the gallery,” the judge said harshly. “I don’t care who you are or what connection you might have to the case, everyone in here will show respect to the court or I will have you removed.”
    Golantz returned to his seat but the tears continued to flow from the mother of one of the victims.
    “I know that to all of you, this is rather shocking news,” Stanton told the jurors. “Be assured that the authorities are investigating the matter thoroughly and hopefully will soon bring the individual or individuals responsible to justice. I am sure you will learn all about it when you read the paper or watch the news, as you are now free to do. As far as today goes, I want to thank you for your service. I know you all were very attentive to the presentation of the prosecution and defense cases and I hope your time here was a positive experience. You are free now to go back to the deliberation room to gather your things and go home. You are excused.”
    We stood one last time for the jury and I watched them file through the doorway to the deliberation room. After they were gone, the judge thanked Golantz and me for our professional demeanor during trial, thanked his staff and quickly adjourned court. I hadn’t bothered to unpack any files from my bag, so I stood motionless for the longest time after the judge left the courtroom. My reverie wasn’t broken until Golantz approached me with his hand out. Without thinking I reached out and shook it.
    “No hard feelings on anything, Mickey. You’re a damn good lawyer.”
    Was,
I thought.
    “Yeah,” I said. “No hard feelings.”
    “You going to hang around and talk to jurors, see which way they were leaning?” he asked.
    I shook my head.
    “No, I’m not interested.”
    “Me neither. Take care of yourself.”
    He clapped me on the shoulder and pushed out through the gate. I was sure there would be a throng of media out in the hall waiting and he’d tell them that in some strange way he felt that justice had been served. Live by the gun, die by the gun. Or words to that effect.
    I’d leave the media for him. Instead, I gave him a good lead and then followed him out. The reporters were already surrounding him and I was able to hug the wall and escape notice. All except for Jack McEvoy from the
Times
. He spotted me and started trailing. He caught me as I got to the stairwell entrance.
    “Hey, Mick!”
    I glanced at him but didn’t stop walking. I knew from experience not to. If one member of the media downed you, the rest of the pride would catch up and pile on. I didn’t want to be devoured. I hit the stairwell door and started down.
    “No comment.”
    He stayed with me, stride for stride.
    “I’m not writing about the trial. I’m covering the new murders. I thought maybe you and I could have the same deal again. You