The Reversal

to McPherson’s side of the table and started pulling out a chair. Then Bosch remembered how he knew McPherson’s name.
    “You two…,” Bosch said. “You were married, right?”
    “That’s right,” Haller said. “Eight wonderful years.”
    “And what, she’s prosecuting Jessup and you’re defending him? Isn’t that a conflict of interest?”
    Haller’s smile became a broad grin.
    “It would only be a conflict if we were opposing each other, Harry. But we’re not. We’re prosecuting him. Together. I’m first chair. Maggie’s second. And we want you to be our investigator.”
    Bosch was completely confused.
    “Wait a minute. You’re not a prosecutor. This doesn’t—”
    “I’m an appointed independent prosecutor, Harry. It’s all legit. I wouldn’t be sitting here if it weren’t. We’re going after Jessup and we want you to help us.”
    Bosch pulled out a chair and slowly sat down.
    “From what I heard, this case is beyond help. Unless you’re telling me Jessup rigged the DNA test.”
    “No, we’re not telling you that,” McPherson said. “We did our own testing and matching. His results were correct. It wasn’t his DNA on the victim’s dress.”
    “But that doesn’t mean we’ve lost the case,” Haller quickly added.
    Bosch looked from McPherson to Haller and then back again. He was clearly missing something.
    “Then whose DNA was it?” he asked.
    McPherson glanced sideways at Haller before answering.
    “Her stepfather’s,” she said. “He’s dead now but we believe there is an explanation for why his semen was found on his stepdaughter’s dress.”
    Haller leaned urgently across the table.
    “An explanation that still leaves room to reconvict Jessup of the girl’s murder.”
    Bosch thought for a moment and the image of his own daughter flashed in his mind. He knew there were certain kinds of evil in the world that had to be contained, no matter the hardship. A child killer was at the top of that list.
    “Okay,” he said. “I’m in.”

Three
    Tuesday, February 16, 1:00 P.M .
    T he DA’s Office had a press conference room that had not been updated since the days they’d used it to hold briefings on the Charles Manson case. Its faded wood-paneled walls and drooping flags in the corner had been the backdrop of a thousand press briefings and they gave all proceedings there a threadbare appearance that belied the true power and might of the office. The state prosecutor was never the underdog in any undertaking, yet it appeared that the office did not have the money for even a fresh coat of paint.
    The setting, however, served the announcement on the Jessup decision well. For possibly the first time in these hallowed halls of justice, the prosecution would indeed be the underdog. The decision to retry Jason Jessup was fraught with peril and the realistic likelihood of failure. As I stood at the front of the room next to Gabriel Williams and before a phalanx of video cameras, bright lights and reporters, it finally dawned on me what a terrible mistake I had made. My decision to take on the case in hopes of currying favor with my daughter, ex-wife and myself was going to be met with disastrous consequences. I was going to go down in flames.
    It was a rare moment to witness firsthand. The media had gathered to report the end of the story. The DA’s Office would assuredly announce that Jason Jessup would not be subjected to a retrial. The DA might not offer an apology but would at the very least say the evidence was not there. That there was no case against this man who had been incarcerated for so long. The case would be closed and in the eyes of the law as well as the public Jessup would finally be a free and innocent man.
    The media is rarely fooled in complete numbers and usually doesn’t react well when it happens. But there was no doubt that Williams had punked them all. We had moved stealthily in the last week, putting together the team and reviewing the evidence that was still available. Not a word had leaked, which must’ve been a first in the halls of the CCB. While I could see the first inkling of suspicion creasing the brows of the reporters who recognized me as we entered, it was Williams who delivered the knockout punch when he wasted no time in stepping before a lectern festooned with microphones and digital recorders.
    “On a Sunday morning twenty-four years ago today, twelve-year-old Melissa Landy was taken from her yard in Hancock Park and brutally