The Brass Verdict

He shoved it into my chest until I took it from him.
    “Here’s one of your new files back, Counselor. Don’t choke on it.”
    He stepped through the door, and his partner went with him. I followed them out into the office and decided to take a shot at reducing the tension. I had a feeling it wouldn’t be the last time I saw them.
    “Look, detectives, I’m sorry it’s like this. I try to have a good relationship with the police and I am sure we can work something out. But at the moment my obligation is to the clients. I don’t even know what I have here. Give me some time to-”
    “We don’t have time,” the older man said. “We lose momentum and we lose the case. Do you understand what you’re getting yourself into here, Counselor?”
    I looked at him for a moment, trying to understand the meaning behind his question.
    “I think so, Detective. I’ve only been working cases for about eighteen years but-”
    “I’m not talking about your experience. I’m talking about what happened in that garage. Whoever killed Vincent was waiting for him out there. They knew where he was and just how to get to him. He was ambushed.”
    I nodded like I understood.
    “If I were you,” the detective said, “I’d watch myself with those new clients of yours. Jerry Vincent knew his killer.”
    “What about when he was a prosecutor? He put people in prison. Maybe one of-”
    “We’ll check into it. But that was a long time ago. I think the person we’re looking for is in those files.”
    With that, he and his partner started moving toward the door.
    “Wait,” I said. “You have a card? Give me a card.”
    The detectives stopped and turned back. The older one pulled a card out of his pocket and gave it to me.
    “That’s got all my numbers.”
    “Let me just get the lay of the land here and then I’ll call and set something up. There’s got to be a way for us to cooperate and still not trample on anybody’s rights.”
    “Whatever you say, you’re the lawyer.”
    I nodded and looked down at the name on the card. Harry Bosch. I was sure I had never met the man before, yet he had started the confrontation by saying he knew who I was.
    “Look, Detective Bosch,” I said, “Jerry Vincent was a colleague. We weren’t that close but we were friends.”
    “And?”
    “And good luck, you know? With the case. I hope you crack it.”
    Bosch nodded and there was something familiar about the physical gesture. Maybe we did know each other.
    He turned to follow his partner out of the office.
    “Detective?”
    Bosch once more turned back to me.
    “Did we ever cross paths on a case before? I think I recog-nize you.”
    Bosch smiled glibly and shook his head.
    “No,” he said. “If we’d been on a case, you’d remember me.”

Seven
    An hour later I was behind Jerry Vincent’s desk with Lorna Taylor and Dennis Wojciechowski sitting across from me. We were eating our sandwiches and about to go over what we had put together from a very preliminary survey of the office and the cases. The food was good but nobody had much of an appetite considering where we were sitting and what had happened to the office’s predecessor.
    I had sent Wren Williams home early. She had been unable to stop crying or objecting to my taking control of her dead boss’s cases. I decided to remove the barricade rather than have to keep walking around it. The last thing she asked before I escorted her through the door was whether I was going to fire her. I told her the jury was still out on that question but that she should report for work as usual the next day.
    With Jerry Vincent dead and Wren Williams gone, we’d been left stumbling around in the dark until Lorna figured out the filing system and started pulling the active case files. From calendar notations in each file, she’d been able to start to put together a master calendar – the key component in any trial lawyer’s professional life. Once we had worked up a rudimentary calendar, I began to breathe a little easier and we’d broken for lunch and opened the sandwich cartons Lorna had brought from Dusty’s.
    The calendar was light. A few case hearings here and there but for the most part it was obvious that Vincent was keeping things clear in advance of the Walter Elliot trial, which was scheduled to begin with jury selection in nine days.
    “So let’s start,” I said, my mouth still full with my last bite. “According to the calendar we’ve pieced together, I’ve got