At the moment, there was no way to know.
Finally, he got the lock open, taking longer than he had the first time. He entered the storage room and moved the light to the blanket and pillow on the ground. The bag Jessup had carried was there. It said Ralphs on its side. Bosch dropped to his knees and was about to open it when his phone buzzed. It was Jacquez.
“We got him. He’s on Nielson at Ocean Park. It looks like he’s walking home.”
“Then try not to lose him this time, Jacquez. I gotta go.”
He disconnected before Jacquez could reply. He quickly called his daughter’s cell. She was in the car with Sue Bambrough. Bosch told her they could turn around and go back home. This news was not received with a thankful release of tension. His daughter was left upset and angry over the scare. Bosch couldn’t blame her but he couldn’t stay on the line.
“I’ll be home in less than an hour. We can talk about it then if you’re still awake. I’ll see you soon.”
He disconnected the call and focused on the bag. He opened it without moving it from its spot next to the blanket.
The bag contained a dozen single-serving-size cans of fruit. There were diced peaches in heavy syrup, chopped pineapple and something called fruit medley. Also in the bag was a package of plastic spoons. Bosch stared at the contents for a long moment and then his eyes moved up the wall to the crossbeams and the locked trapdoor above.
“Who are you bringing here, Jessup?” he whispered.
Thirty-three
Wednesday, April 7, 1:05 P.M .
All eyes were on the back of the courtroom. It was time for the main event, and while I had ringside seats, I was still going to be just a spectator like everybody else. That didn’t sit very well with me but it was a choice I could live with and trust. The door opened and Harry Bosch led our main witness into the courtroom. Sarah Ann Gleason told us she didn’t own any dresses and didn’t want to buy one to testify in. She wore black jeans and a purple silk blouse. She looked pretty and she looked confident. We didn’t need a dress.
Bosch stayed on her right side and when opening the gate for her positioned his body between her and Jessup, who sat at the defense table, turned like everybody else toward his main accuser’s entrance.
Bosch let her go the rest of the way by herself. Maggie McFierce was already at the lectern and she smiled warmly at her witness as she went by. This was Maggie’s moment, too, and I read her smile as one of hope for both women.
We’d had a good morning, with testimony from Bill Clinton, the former tow truck driver, and then Bosch taking the case through to lunch. Clinton told his story about the day of the murder and Jessup borrowing his Dodgers cap just before they became part of the impromptu lineup outside the house on Windsor Boulevard. He also testified to the Aardvark drivers’ frequent use of and familiarity with the parking lot behind the El Rey Theatre, and Jessup’s claim to Windsor Boulevard on the morning of the murder. These were good, solid points for the prosecution, and Clinton gave no quarter to Royce on cross.
Then Bosch took the stand for a third time in the trial. Rather than read previous testimony, this time he testified about his own recent investigation of the case and produced the Dodgers cap-with the initials BC under the brim-from property that had been seized from Jessup during his arrest twenty-four years earlier. We were forced to dance around the fact that the hat as well as Jessup’s other belongings had been in the property room at San Quentin for the past twenty-four years. To bring that information out would be to reveal that Jessup had previously been convicted of Melissa Landy’s murder.
And now Sarah Gleason would be the prosecution’s final witness. Through her the case would come together in the emotional crescendo I was counting on. One sister standing for a long-lost sister. I leaned back in my seat to watch my ex-wife-the best prosecutor I had ever encountered-take us home.
Gleason was sworn in and then took her seat on the stand. She was small and required the microphone to be lowered by the courtroom deputy. Maggie cleared her voice and began.
“Good morning, Ms. Gleason. How are you today?”
“I’m doing pretty good.”
“Can you please tell the jury a little bit about yourself?”
“Um, I’m thirty-seven years old. Not married. I live in Port Townsend, Washington, and I’ve been there about seven years now.”
“What do you do for a living?”
“I’m a glass artist.”
“And what was your relationship to Melissa Landy?”
“She was my younger sister.”
“How much younger was she than you?”
“Thirteen months.”
Maggie put a photograph of the two sisters up on the overhead screen as a prosecution exhibit. It showed two smiling girls standing in front of a Christmas tree.
“Can you identify this photo?”
“That was me and Melissa at the last Christmas. Right before she was taken.”
“So that would be Christmas nineteen eighty-five?”
“Yes.”
“I notice that she and you are about the same size.”
“Yes, she wasn’t really my little sister anymore. She had caught up to me.”
“Did you share the same clothes?”
“We shared some things but we also had our favorite things that we didn’t share. That could cause a fight.”
She smiled and Maggie nodded that she understood.
“Now, you said she was taken. Were you referring to February sixteenth of the following year, the date of your sister’s abduction and murder?”
“Yes, I was.”
“Okay, Sarah, I know it will be difficult for you but I would like you to tell the jury what you saw and did on that day.”
Gleason nodded as if steeling herself for what was ahead. I checked the jury and saw every eye holding on her. I then turned and glanced at the defense table and locked eyes with Jessup. I did not look away. I held his defiant stare and tried to send back my own message. That two women-one asking the questions, the other answering them-were going to take him down.
Finally, it was Jessup who looked away.
“Well, it was a Sunday,” Gleason said. “We were going to go to church. My whole family. Melissa and I were in our dresses so my mother told us to go out front.”
“Why couldn’t you use the backyard?”
“My stepfather was building a pool and there was a lot of mud in the back and a big hole. My mother was worried we might fall down and get our dresses dirty.”
“So you went out to the front yard.”
“Yes.”
“And where were your parents at this time, Sarah?”
“My mother was still upstairs getting ready and my stepfather was in the TV room. He was watching sports.”
“Where was the TV room in the house?”
“In the back next to the kitchen.”
“Okay, Sarah, I am going to show you a photo called ‘People’s prosecution exhibit eleven.’ Is this the front of the house where you lived on Windsor Boulevard?”
All eyes went to the overhead screen. The yellow-brick house spread across the screen. It was a long shot from the street, showing a deep front yard with ten-foot hedges running down both sides. There was a front porch that ran the width of the house and that was largely hidden behind ornamental vegetation. There was a paved walkway extending from the sidewalk, across the lawn and to the steps of the front porch. I had reviewed our photo exhibits several times in preparation for the trial. But for the first time, I noticed that the walkway had a crack running down the center of its entire length from sidewalk to front steps. It somehow seemed appropriate, considering what had happened at the home.