The Brass Verdict

door.
    “Look, what’s your name?”
    “Jack McEvoy. I work the police beat.”
    “Good for you, Jack. But I can’t talk about this right now. You want to give me a card, I’ll call you when I can talk.”
    He made no move to give me a card or to indicate he’d understood what I said. He just asked another question.
    “Has the judge put a gag order on you?”
    “No, she hasn’t put out a gag order. I can’t talk to you because I don’t know anything, okay? When I have something to say, I’ll say it.”
    “Well, could you tell me why you are taking over Vincent’s cases?”
    “You already know the answer to that. I was appointed by the judge. I have to get to court now.”
    I ducked into the car but left the door open as I turned the key. McEvoy put his elbow on the roof and leaned in to continue to try to talk me into an interview.
    “Look,” I said, “I’ve got to go, so could you stand back so I can close my door and back this tank up?”
    “I was hoping we could make a deal,” he said quickly.
    “Deal? What deal? What are you talking about?”
    “You know, information. I’ve got the police department wired and you’ve got the courthouse wired. It would be a two-way street. You tell me what you’re hearing and I’ll tell you what I’m hearing. I have a feeling this is going to be a big case. I need any information I can get.”
    I turned and looked up at him for a moment.
    “But won’t the information you’d be giving me just end up in the paper the next day? I could just wait and read it.”
    “Not all of it will be in there. Some stuff you can’t print, even if you know it’s true.”
    He looked at me as though he were passing on a great piece of wisdom.
    “I have a feeling you’ll be hearing things before I do,” I said.
    “I’ll take my chances. Deal?”
    “You got a card?”
    This time he took a card out of his pocket and handed it to me. I held it between my fingers and draped my hand over the steering wheel. I held the card up and looked at it again. I figured it wouldn’t hurt to get a line on inside information on the case.
    “Okay, deal.”
    I signaled him away again and pulled the door closed, then started the car. He was still there. I lowered the window.
    “What?” I asked.
    “Just remember, I don’t want to see your name in the other papers or on the TV saying stuff I don’t have.”
    “Don’t worry. I know how it works.”
    “Good.”
    I dropped it into reverse but thought of something and kept my foot on the brake.
    “Let me ask you a question. How tight are you with Bosch, the lead investigator on the case?”
    “I know him, but nobody’s really tight with him. Not even his own partner.”
    “What’s his story?”
    “I don’t know. I never asked.”
    “Well, is he any good at it?”
    “At clearing cases? Yes, he’s very good. I think he’s considered one of the best.”
    I nodded and thought about Bosch. The man on a mission.
    “Watch your toes.”
    I backed the Lincoln out. McEvoy called out to me just as I put the car in drive.
    “Hey, Haller, love the plate.”
    I waved a hand out the window as I drove down the ramp. I tried to remember which of my Lincolns I was driving and what the plate said. I have a fleet of three Town Cars left over from my days when I carried a full case load. But I had been using the cars so infrequently in the last year that I had put all three into a rotation to keep the engines in tune and the dust out of the pipes. Part of my comeback strategy, I guess. The cars were exact duplicates, except for the license plates, and I wasn’t sure which one I was driving.
    When I got down to the parking attendant’s booth and handed in my stub, I saw a small video screen next to the cash register. It showed the view from a camera located a few feet behind my car. It was the camera Cisco had told me about, designed to pick up an angle on the rear bumper and license plate.
    On the screen I could see my vanity plate.
    IWALKEM
    I smirked. I walk ’em, all right. I was heading to court to meet one of Jerry Vincent’s clients for the first time. I was going to shake his hand and then walk him right into prison.

Nine
    Judge Judith Champagne was on the bench and hearing motions when I walked into her courtroom with five minutes to spare. There were eight other lawyers cooling their heels, waiting their turn. I parked my roller bag against the rail and whispered to the courtroom deputy, explaining that I was there to