The Night Fire (Renée Ballard, #3)(37)

“So, what just happened in there?” she asked.

“I think Haller just got a directed verdict of acquittal,” Bosch said. “At least that’s what I bet they’re talking about in chambers.”

“That testimony. He knocked down the DNA?”

“More like he set up a way to explain how the defendant’s DNA got under the judge’s fingernail. It was transferred.”

He nodded across the hall to the bench where Dr. Schmidt sat.

“That’s his DNA expert,” Bosch said. “She comes in next to talk about touch DNA, DNA transfer. Herstadt’s DNA was found under Judge Montgomery’s fingernail. One fingernail. The oximeter could have transferred it. It’s reasonable doubt right there. It will hang up the jury if not get the outright acquittal.”

“But wait,” Ballard said. “What about the guy’s confession? He admitted to the crime.”

“Haller blew that up yesterday. Herstadt’s schizophrenic. His doctor was on the stand saying he’s got the kind of psychosis that would lead him to agree to anything while under stress, say yes to anything, including murdering a judge in the park. I think Haller’s got this won. I think the judge thinks so too. That’s gotta be what they’re in chambers talking about.”

“And you gave him all of this?”

She said it in a tone that Bosch heard as distrustful, as if what he had done was part of a contrived scheme by the defense. It offended him.

“I gave him facts,” he said. “No tricks. I think what he laid out in there is what happened. Herstadt didn’t do it.”

“Sorry,” Ballard said quickly. “I didn’t mean to suggest … I liked Judge Montgomery. I told you that.”

“I liked him, too. I just want to make sure the right guy goes down for killing him, that’s all.”

“Of course. Of course. We all do.”

Bosch didn’t respond further. He still felt the heat of being unjustly accused of something. He turned and looked down the hallway at people going in and out of courtrooms, waiting on benches, wandering aimlessly in the halls of justice. He saw some of the jurors from the Montgomery case coming back from the restrooms.

“So why are you here?” he finally asked. “You get something at ballistics this morning?”

“Actually, no,” Ballard said.

Her tone had shifted. Bosch thought she was probably happy to change the subject after stepping into the shit with him on the trial.

“There was nothing in the data bank that matched the projectile or shell from Hilton,” she continued. “But at least it’s in there now should anything come up down the line.”

“Too bad,” Bosch said. “But we knew it was a long shot. What’s next? Rialto?”

“The more I find out about Elvin Kidd, the more I think the answer is out there.”

“What did you find now?”

Ballard pulled her backpack over and removed her laptop. She opened it and drew up side-by-side mug shots of a black man facing front and turned to the right.

“These are mug shots of Kidd from Corcoran, taken in 1989, the year he and John Hilton were both there. Now look at this.”

She pulled Hilton’s sketchbook out of the backpack. She opened it to a specific page and handed it to Bosch. He compared the drawing on the page to the man in the mug shots.

“It’s a match,” he said.

“They knew each other up there,” Ballard said. “I think they were lovers. And then when they both paroled out and came back to L.A., that was a problem for Kidd. He was a Crip OG. Any gay vibe and that could be fatal.”

“That’s a big jump. You nail down that he was gay?”

“Not at the moment, it’s just a guess. There’s something about the drawings in the sketchbook … then the whole drug addiction thing, the coldness of the parents in their statement. I’m still working that. Why—what do you know?”

“I don’t know anything about that. But I do remember that John Jack and I worked a few gay murders, and John Jack never got too motivated about them. It was his one flaw. He could never get the fire burning if it was a gay victim. I remember this one case—a one-nighter gone bad. An old guy picked up a young guy in West Hollywood, took him back to his place in the hills off Outpost. The kid robbed him, then beat him to death with his belt. It had a big rodeo buckle and it was a bad scene. And I remember John Jack said something that bothered me. He said, ‘Sometimes people deserve what they get.’ I’m not saying that’s wrong all the time—I’ve had cases where I believed that. But in that case it was wrong.”

“Everybody counts or nobody counts.”

“You got it.”

“So again we come to why did John Jack take the murder book?

Was it because he hated gays and didn’t want it solved?”

“That seems extreme. I don’t think we’re there yet.”

“Maybe not.”

They sat in silence for a few moments. More jurors were returning to the assembly room. Bosch knew he had to get back into the courtroom. More out of curiosity about what was happening than any duty to be in there.

“Doesn’t matter what Thompson did or didn’t do with the case,” Bosch said. “Or Hunter and Talis.”