also provided McPherson with a full package of directions to Port Townsend. They drove up to Seattle and then took a ferry across Puget Sound. They left the car and went up for coffee on the concessions deck, finding an open table next to a set of windows. Bosch was staring out the window when McPherson surprised him with an observation.
“You’re not happy, are you, Harry?”
Bosch looked at her and shrugged.
“It’s a weird case. Twenty-four years old and we start with the bad guy already in prison and we take him out. It doesn’t make me unhappy, it’s just kind of strange, you know?”
She had a half smile on her face.
“I wasn’t talking about the case. I was talking about you. You’re not a happy man.”
Bosch looked down at the coffee he held on the table with two hands. Not because of the ferry’s movement, but because he was cold and the coffee was warming him inside and out.
“Oh,” he said.
A long silence opened up between them. He wasn’t sure what he should reveal to this woman. He had known her for only a week and she was making observations about him.
“I don’t really have time to be happy right now,” he finally said.
“Mickey told me what he felt he could about Hong Kong and what happened with your daughter.”
Bosch nodded. But he knew Maggie didn’t know the whole story. Nobody did except for Madeline and him.
“Yeah,” he said. “She caught some bad breaks there. That’s the thing, I guess. I think if I can make my daughter happy, then I’ll be happy. But I am not sure when that will be.”
He brought his eyes up to hers and saw only sympathy. He smiled.
“Yeah, we should get the two cousins together,” he said, moving on.
“Absolutely,” she said.
Eleven
Thursday, February 18, 1:30 P.M .
T he Los Angeles Times carried a lengthy story on Jason Jessup’s first day of freedom in twenty-four years. The reporter and photographer met him at dawn on Venice Beach, where the forty-eight-year-old tried his hand at his boyhood pastime of surfing. On the first few sets, he was shaky on a borrowed longboard but soon he was up and riding the break. A photo of Jessup standing upright on the board and riding a curl with his arms outstretched, his face turned up to the sky, was the centerpiece photo on the newspaper’s front page. The photo showed off what two decades of lifting prison iron will do. Jessup’s body was roped with muscle. He looked lean and mean.
From the beach the next stop was an In-N-Out franchise in Westwood for hamburgers and French fries with all the catsup he wanted. After lunch Jessup went to Clive Royce’s storefront office in downtown, where he attended a two-hour meeting with the battery of attorneys representing him in both criminal and civil matters. This meeting was not open to the Times .
Jessup rounded out the afternoon by watching a movie called Shutter Island at the Chinese theater in Hollywood. He bought a tub of buttered popcorn large enough to feed a family of four and ate every puffed kernel. He then returned to Venice, where he had a room in an apartment near the beach courtesy of a high-school surfing buddy. The day ended at a beach barbecue with a handful of supporters who had never wavered in their belief in his innocence.
I sat at my desk studying the color photos of Jessup that graced two inside pages of the A section. The paper was going all-out on the story, as it had all along, surely smelling the journalistic honors to be gathered at the end of Jessup’s journey to complete freedom. Springing an innocent man from prison was the ultimate newspaper story and the Times was desperately trying to take credit for Jessup’s release.
The largest photo showed Jessup’s unabashed delight at the red plastic tray sitting in front of him at a table at In-N-Out. The tray contained a fully loaded double-double with fries smothered in catsup and melted cheese. The caption said
Why Is This Man Smiling? 12:05—Jessup eats his first
“You’re not happy, are you, Harry?”
Bosch looked at her and shrugged.
“It’s a weird case. Twenty-four years old and we start with the bad guy already in prison and we take him out. It doesn’t make me unhappy, it’s just kind of strange, you know?”
She had a half smile on her face.
“I wasn’t talking about the case. I was talking about you. You’re not a happy man.”
Bosch looked down at the coffee he held on the table with two hands. Not because of the ferry’s movement, but because he was cold and the coffee was warming him inside and out.
“Oh,” he said.
A long silence opened up between them. He wasn’t sure what he should reveal to this woman. He had known her for only a week and she was making observations about him.
“I don’t really have time to be happy right now,” he finally said.
“Mickey told me what he felt he could about Hong Kong and what happened with your daughter.”
Bosch nodded. But he knew Maggie didn’t know the whole story. Nobody did except for Madeline and him.
“Yeah,” he said. “She caught some bad breaks there. That’s the thing, I guess. I think if I can make my daughter happy, then I’ll be happy. But I am not sure when that will be.”
He brought his eyes up to hers and saw only sympathy. He smiled.
“Yeah, we should get the two cousins together,” he said, moving on.
“Absolutely,” she said.
Eleven
Thursday, February 18, 1:30 P.M .
T he Los Angeles Times carried a lengthy story on Jason Jessup’s first day of freedom in twenty-four years. The reporter and photographer met him at dawn on Venice Beach, where the forty-eight-year-old tried his hand at his boyhood pastime of surfing. On the first few sets, he was shaky on a borrowed longboard but soon he was up and riding the break. A photo of Jessup standing upright on the board and riding a curl with his arms outstretched, his face turned up to the sky, was the centerpiece photo on the newspaper’s front page. The photo showed off what two decades of lifting prison iron will do. Jessup’s body was roped with muscle. He looked lean and mean.
From the beach the next stop was an In-N-Out franchise in Westwood for hamburgers and French fries with all the catsup he wanted. After lunch Jessup went to Clive Royce’s storefront office in downtown, where he attended a two-hour meeting with the battery of attorneys representing him in both criminal and civil matters. This meeting was not open to the Times .
Jessup rounded out the afternoon by watching a movie called Shutter Island at the Chinese theater in Hollywood. He bought a tub of buttered popcorn large enough to feed a family of four and ate every puffed kernel. He then returned to Venice, where he had a room in an apartment near the beach courtesy of a high-school surfing buddy. The day ended at a beach barbecue with a handful of supporters who had never wavered in their belief in his innocence.
I sat at my desk studying the color photos of Jessup that graced two inside pages of the A section. The paper was going all-out on the story, as it had all along, surely smelling the journalistic honors to be gathered at the end of Jessup’s journey to complete freedom. Springing an innocent man from prison was the ultimate newspaper story and the Times was desperately trying to take credit for Jessup’s release.
The largest photo showed Jessup’s unabashed delight at the red plastic tray sitting in front of him at a table at In-N-Out. The tray contained a fully loaded double-double with fries smothered in catsup and melted cheese. The caption said
Why Is This Man Smiling? 12:05—Jessup eats his first
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